Schoolboy
by ejectingthecore
Summary: A Cadet Spock lust-love-smut-sweetness-first-times story. Hard M, especially in later chapters. Spock & anonymous cute female cadet.
1. Ache

_I do not own anything Star Trek._

_This story takes place when Spock is a brand new cadet, so he does not yet know Nyota Uhura. The female narrator in this story is anonymous._

_If you like anonymous females & Spock, come on over to the TOS section where TalesFromTheSpockSide and I have been writing some erotic stuff. (see my author page). Thanks to TFTSS, dr. spleenmeister, outtabreath, and kalanel for feedback and encouragement._

*****

Captain Pike has suggested that I am "hot." It is a term females, and some males, use to describe men who have impressive intelligence, physical grace, a well-formed body, dynamic eyes, and an aloof aspect called "hard to get." Apparently I possess these qualities.

The term also includes a sense of humor. Mine is not widely known. I do not have a "dazzling smile." These two conditions seem to be waived in my case.

Since I came to study at the academy late last year, Pike--whom I am told to call Christopher--has taken a personal interest in my progress and become my mentor. He is also my mentor in all things social--a self-appointed task that confounds him daily--and he tells me I should go out and meet "ladies." He says I would find it an easy task, and that it might help me "loosen up."

Christopher is correct in noting there are whispers and stares directed toward me as I walk about campus. He does not understand the motives behind them. I am a singular being, alone and odd in the universe. Since the first moment I can remember, I have been stared at and whispered about. And while I work to control my unease and anger at all times, there are moments when those feelings become visible. My mentor tells me women think I'm sexy. I cannot believe that Christopher is correct.

In any case, if I am in fact "hot," it is not a situation I enjoy like most males would. Humans have gushing, disgusting emotional responses to their lovers. Orions and Betazoids think Vulcans are a challenge to secure sexually. I have no desire to become a minor deity or a lab rat. I have no reason to explore. I have experienced sexual intercourse once on Vulcan and will again when the proper time comes. Outside of that, I see no point. I am pleased to stay detached. Focused completely on my studies, on proving the rightness of my bold, most say impudent, choice to leave Vulcan for Starfleet.

I exist in this state until I notice an extraordinary person who--by anyone's definition--is hot.

She is intelligent, aesthetically exceptional, has the requisite dynamic eyes and smile, hair arranged in an elaborate shape that, while inefficient, accentuates her neck. I have not noticed before whether anyone around me has such features. I do not know why I see them on her now. I also note that despite my ability to acknowledge and catalog these separate features, they blend to form an altogether pleasing aspect that is more than the parts suggest. I find the features do not explain the wave of chemical reaction she elicits in me. The physical ache that comes along with being in her presence is intense and unrelenting, but some part of me knows it is private and not something to bring to the attention of a doctor.

I meditate in the evenings, and in the mornings I awake early to mentally review several possible causes before beginning my day of study. On particularly pleasing days I sit behind her in class and her hair hangs long and shines when she moves her head and the ache flares up, then settles again into its throbbing constancy. Upon one such moment, a cause I had not considered suddenly becomes clear. This ache is physical desire. I leave class the very second we are dismissed and walk in silent shame to my room.

This new sensation is unpleasant and yet exceedingly pleasant at once. And despite being Vulcan, I find I cannot subdue it.

*****

He is hot. Oh, gods, he's hot. Deep soulful eyes, long limbs, he moves like water. He wears a cadet's uniform like no one has before. It almost doesn't matter that he always looks so grave. That no one will ever see him smile.

At one time I imagined I might see that smile. I was infatuated with him and watched him hungrily from my seat in our enormous classroom. I was distracted, troubled in a way I hadn't been by any man before. So attracted to him instantly, his intelligence, his grace, his body. Messages blinked all over the classroom when he entered, girls like fireflies discussing for the nth time how hot he is. I stayed out of that meadow. Dreamt about him in my mind alone. I'm a passionate person. I imagined that under that uniform and those foreboding eyebrows lay a man who was sexual, an animal, a lover he wouldn't let out of its cage. And in my fantasies I could release him.

But time went on and he presented himself like ice, never did warm up. He did not speak to anyone after class or go anywhere outside of academic confines like any other cadet would do. I once spoke to him and he looked at me as though I were a bug, or less, something that he just noticed was under his shoe. Afterwards, I even sent him a message, asking if he would work with me on refining one of my papers. He sent back a terse negative.

I once thought he was a contained animal. Then I realized that far from it, he was not even part Human inside. He radiated something distasteful which I finally identified as pride. With time his detachment spilled over into arrogance, and I found I didn't think he was gorgeous anymore.

It's a pity, because of how he approaches me one day.

He talks to virtually no one. Now he wants to talk. To me. He asks if I'll meet him in a seldom-used part of the communications lab, no doubt where he hides to work in silence and isolation. As I click down the hall to the lonely lab, I can't help but try to review the possible reasons, and I come up with none. I'm intrigued, and even though I've learned to hate him I go.

He invites me in and closes the door. And damn it, the sound of that door closing thrusts me back immediately into the heat of the infatuation I thought I'd eradicated. I'd fantasized about being alone with him. Now here we are with the door closed. My head is having trouble reconciling dreams with reality.

He starts talking about an exam we just took, a transmission that was the basis for one of the exam scenarios. He asks me to listen, and I lean slightly over the high table to put in an ear piece and wade through mostly static. He leans on the table too, far less casually than I. Though rather awkward, he is alongside me. Watching me. I didn't even think he knew me, and now I'm nearly touching arms with him, listening to white noise. I've never even seen him this close, stood near enough to appreciate his towering height and warm clean smell. Crap. He's even more enticing close-up. Something is different. His eyes are alight. For the first time I can see something reaching out from him.

He unfolds himself gracefully and stands behind one of my shoulders, and I stand too. He continues to watch me listen. It's weird. He gets so close I can feel that his body is heated. In fact, he seems to be almost burning. My idea that he's arrogant and not gorgeous suddenly seems very poorly considered. So, so wrong. He takes a deep breath through his nose as if he's picking up my scent, and in that moment I realize I was right all along about the beast in there.

With a mental snap I realize he wants me.

He's very, very close. I can just feel his body brushing mine but he does not push against me or touch me at all, just hovers there, and I feel static electricity between our red uniforms. Though I'm turned away from him, I can see his face clearly in my mind, his gorgeous eyes, exquisite mouth, the features I used to want under my hands and tongue. I almost lean back into him. Almost.

Then I get angry.

He hardly knows my name, let alone who I really am, my interests, what I like to do for fun, my goals and hopes for my life in Starfleet. When I tried to engage him in friendship, he rebuffed me. Hard. Now he wants me, and he knows he's beautiful and believes that's all it takes. He thinks that after all the time he's been icy to me--to every woman on the planet--he can just walk up to me and say Hey, I choose you, let's go? It's so rude I start to boil. My most generous thought is that his social skills are tremendously blocky. But a big part of me is mad. My skin prickles with it. I stand rigid, eyes on the communications console.

He reaches around my neck and pulls my hair back over one shoulder. It's a very intimate gesture, something a longtime lover would do, and it takes me aback.

It also lights something inside me that is about to make me never care again about being angry.

I have to go.


	2. Bend

*****

She is gone.

My only conclusion is that I did not proceed properly. I have never had to engage a woman in being intimate. It's been done for me. I realize that in these matters I am like a 14 year old Human boy, but with a man's body and apparently a man's desires. When I am close to her those desires flare and burn. Despite my upbringing and training, this is not something I know how to package and put away in my mind.

My mind. For the first time in my life it abandoned me. My body acted.

I found myself standing closer to her than I have ever voluntarily been to another person, and rather than finding it distasteful it was stimulating. More than that, though I am not accustomed to using passionate words and if I had to describe the sensation I don't believe I could accurately do so. The closest I can articulate is a physical pull, as if our bodies were drawing into one another without touching, her hips back into my legs, her head turning so slightly as to be indiscernible by anyone who was not as close as I. I breathed deeply to focus myself but found it drew in her scent. The ache became much worse.

My hand needed to make contact. That I touched her hair, a gesture more intimate than any I have made toward another person, is both implausible and unconscionable. I do not know where the idea came from or why I could not quell the desire. Yet even while I disgusted myself, I noticed how every strand of her silky hair felt on my fingers, the moment a burning point centered in my palm.

She dropped her ear piece on the floor and fled the room. I do not blame her. She did not look back.

*****

I want to go back.

I find I can keep moving, leave the room, leave the building. But I can't stop feeling my hair pulled back over my shoulder, slight tug on my scalp, neck exposed to cool air, slowed down so the moment nearly becomes caught in amber. The sense of him touching me like that sends me spiraling somewhere where there is no anger, only want. A very basic place inside me. I want him to join me there. I run away to save myself from what he apparently can do. But what he can do follows me and won't go away. I now have some real experience on which to base my dreams, which are many and vivid.

Class the next day is intense. Unlike any other day, this time he sits just two rows behind me and I understand what it means to feel a person's gaze. I can feel his eyes smolder, enter me in an invasive, steaming way. I shift uncomfortably and bow my head, glue my eyes to my PADD. There is no doubt the women around me are noticing. A few stare at me. A couple of them send me messages, which I ignore. The minute the lecture is over I stand to flee, but he stands up abruptly and steps in front of me.

He is exceptionally rude. He says "Walk with me," and my anger flares again. I'm no one's pet. But maybe I am becoming one, because I do walk with him. We disappear from the classroom, dozens of eyes frankly following us. A small part of me wants to smirk at them and say _Yes, Yes it __is__ what you think_. The mature part of me keeps my eyes forward and walks from the room at his side.

He leads me to that same deserted part of the lab. We sit, officially this time, cordially like there will be tea and cakes. Astonishingly, he's inarticulate as he bumbles through an apology for "behaving inappropriately." He is completely, painfully rigid in a different way than usual. He explains he has no experience speaking with females.

He works hard to convey his apology. It actually moves my heart. He's an intelligent, gorgeous man--the most intelligent, sexy, graceful, beautiful man at the academy--who has no experience talking to women, being with us, holding us, touching us. I'm surprised and unsure why he feels something deep and confusing toward _me_. That fact alone, even without him gently touching my hair, is intoxicating. He explains his actions were too forward, that he just wanted to…know me. The words make me wet, and I blush with anger at my traitorous body. Damn it.

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I feel I will burst if I don't jump him. But I haven't entirely forgiven him, or myself. Illogically, I'm mad at him for both shunning me and being too intimate. I'm mad at myself for falling for him even though he shut me out so painfully before. He's left off by telling me he has a hard time talking to women, and I have not thrown him a lifeline. There's a raw silence. He doesn't know how to proceed and it's killing us both.

His social skills are more than blocky, they're atrocious, and I now recognize his past arrogance as fear. He doesn't know about being sweet and soft, not commanding a girl to walk with him. He doesn't know about sensuality. About skin on skin, tongues together, fingers roaming, sighs.

Perhaps all he's ever had of sensuality is our clothing nearly touching and his hand on my hair. And no matter how hard his body is crying out for all of this, his mind doesn't get the purpose. Nor the how-to.

I find I might forgive him for his presumptions. And teach him something.

*****


	3. Whimper

*****

That she agrees to walk with me to the lab is surprising and gratifying. That she remains and talks and laughs even more so. She refuses my apology, but then her eyes seem to convey something generous and I am more confused than at any other time since I noticed her. Even as my mouth speaks, my mind is snagged on the red fabric of her uniform. I want it in my hands. To do what with, I do not know.

As I walk about campus I sense the other students looking at me. I have apparently, despite my efforts at control, made my current state clear. Females stare at me and one fans herself. Someone whispers regarding walls burning down. One wishes it were her. I push these images and sounds aside and try to walk normally. I can succeed at walking. It should be simple.

My mind darts about and I cannot center it. I have had sex with a woman who agreed to carry out a duty, but I am coming to understand that I have never made love, and I want to. I want her in my arms. Now. My arms seem to hurt for her, and my mind races. In the morning, there is saliva on my pillow. I am a disgrace.

Desire is something I should suppress.

I work to organize and contain my thoughts about her. Ineffectively. Visions of things I once thought inappropriate, disgusting, and entirely unnecessary insert themselves into the front of my mind several times during the day, as I go about studying, meditating, eating. As I eat dinner, I think idiotically that she must eat. It makes me think of her mouth. I want to kiss it. More accurately, my body wants me to kiss it. Intellectually, I do not know what a Human kiss is like. I have not been granted one. Vulcans do not use their mouths for intimacy in this way. I no longer want to be Vulcan.

*****

He asks me again. He's inept, but he's persistent, I'll give him that.

After another intense class period of his eyes branding his name on my back, I get up and he blocks me with his body. Oh god, his intrusive body. Why does it look so luscious in that uniform? Rather than commanding me, his eyes beg me--- _he_ begs me---to come to the dark and lonely lab. That he even asks again is desperate. He's yearning and can't help but let the world see it. The absolute impossible-to-get Vulcan is visibly pining for me. Imploring me. In an instant I see us from the outside, standing so close, him dying to kiss me, touch me, probably to fuck me. And I'm pushing him away. _What am I thinking?!_

As we walk, I let go.

My anger washes away completely, and I immerse myself in him. I free myself to be seduced by his heat, his broad shoulders right at my eye level, the smell of warm, male body. I'm propelled by the promise of what's to come, soon. Now that I've given myself permission to take it. I walk with him, and suddenly it can't be fast enough. I'm sure I radiate sex as we travel the hallways. He breathes deeply and walks a bit faster. This time there are no tea and cakes. He closes the door.

He's stiff but quite nearly vibrating with need. His eyes seethe. But he cocks his head to one side and asks "Why did you come with me?" I can barely wait to touch and taste him, yet he is truly dense and I have to spell it out. "I came here to see whether, if we stood close like we did the first time, there might be a different result." Unbelievably, he still doesn't get that it's an invitation. He has no reference for flirting and takes everything literally. He's _hoping_ for a different result, but still very unsure whether he'll get one. I turn to face the console just as I did the first time we met in this place and ask him in my deepest voice, "Where were we?"

He swallows and moves shyly my way. "Here" he says softly, positioning himself behind me as if I mean it literally. That'll work. Oh, oh how it works. Now that I've given in a bonfire starts, a pinpoint of light that catches fast. Like the first time, he doesn't touch me, just stands close enough to trap an atom between his hips and my back. He breathes me in again, just like last time we stood this way. Our clothing is vanishingly touching exactly as it did. I become conscious that he has a perfect, detailed memory and is repeating this scenario precisely. And that means just one thing. That he's going to do it again.

He reaches to my neck and pulls my hair back over one shoulder. I suck in air, this time out of unchecked arousal. His hand is soft, nearly afraid, but it lingers on my hair a bit longer, and barely audible even at this small distance, he whispers one forlorn, desperate word. "Please."

His voice is so quietly raw--the arrogant, sexy man reduced to a heartrending plea. I can't stand another second without taking him, and I turn my head over my shoulder to grab his mouth.

He doesn't know how to kiss, lowers his head to simply press his mouth against mine. But this dumb contact is full of something visceral and arouses both of us and soon the few centimeters between us are closed by his thickness against my back. I turn a bit farther and show him how to touch tongues. First I lick his bottom lip and he sighs, then as I slide my tongue into his mouth he gasps and goes completely still. I'm afraid I've broken him. But he gets the idea fast and pushes into the kiss to follow my lead. His powerful hands grab both my shoulders and spin me to face him so we can do this more directly. I feel him stir against me, and I wonder at how quickly he has awakened. Gods, he must need it bad. No. Need _me_ bad. Oh that thought feels good. I let myself drown in him for long moments of mouth and teeth and tongue and breath. I grab handfuls of his red uniform that hugs his body so thoroughly.

In disbelief, I pull back to gaze on him. I thought he was beautiful before, but as I now see his face in this context I'm breathless. His endless eyes, slightly parted lips that I used to stare at longingly, then gave up on, then hated, and now I'm tentatively beginning to know. Those lips confused, desperately waiting for mine to lock on again. Every bit of arrogance is gone, replaced by wretched longing and the sweetest awkwardness.

I find that my hottest fantasies weren't hot enough.

We sink to our knees.

*****


	4. Taste

*****

The results change dramatically, in my favor.

For days I had been mentally and physically unstable, and after much consideration decided I needed to purge my attraction to her. I concluded the solution was to touch her. If I would touch her just once I could release myself from this purgatory. I did not know how to arrange it, and I considered speaking with Christopher but did not wish to be slapped on the back and given a "pep talk."

I took the most direct route to resolution. I threw myself at her mercy, looking to her after class and letting her see my need. I had no doubt she would see my eyes--the eyes I have heard called deep and expressive--and vacate the classroom using the exit farthest from me.

But she agreed, once again, to walk with me to the lab--her third time here--and suddenly letting my eyes speak to her seemed forward. I attempted to lock them away. As we walked here, I felt an electricity rise between us. I attributed it to my extreme discomfiture and shame, and continued as quickly as possible to get this experience finished. If I were to touch her, I needed to do it soon and be done with her disgust so I could begin to reassemble my mind.

I stood across this small room and placed my hands behind my back, a posture that hid their desirous shaking. For the first time, I appreciated the dim lighting in this cramped space, as I had let embarrassment creep into my mind and face and was sure I was a hot green. I controlled myself as much as possible, which was not much in such a confined space with her person.

When I finally stopped observing my own wretched behavior, I listened and found she was asking me to approach her. I believed I was misunderstanding her and did not wish to make an error, so I asked her to clarify. She placed her body in the exact location where she stood the first time we came here. I had memorized the location and was deeply familiar with it, since I had stood in that spot numerous times over the past several days.

She spoke about recreating our placement in the room, to note if the results might change. I agreed to anything that would bring me close to her. I stood behind her, smelled her scent, repeated everything exactly. I made contact with her hair and briefly believed I had accomplished the touch I needed to purge all desire. Instead I became enflamed. I realized that one touch would not--as I had believed--be the key I needed to end my agony. It would not work. My thoughts became frantic and I looked forward to a life without reason. I would become lost and never work my way free of this self-made hell. I sank to the deepest low of my life. I begged her. For what, I did not know.

Now begging her seems very smart.

Because her beautiful face turns up to me and I lower my head to meet hers in what must be an instinctual act. She places her lips--the pink lips that have seized my mind--on mine. I am struck dumb. After wishing for her touch, I do not know how to respond to it. I thought she would reject me. I have not thought through this scenario and do not know anything I suddenly need to know. She runs her tongue along my lips and it is a wet shock. She pushes softly into my mouth. I am frozen like a dullard. It does not matter, because she begins to show me how to proceed. I finally let go of my consuming endless loop of shame and desire and spin her around to face me.

We move together to our knees on the floor. This is not an optimal place for intimacy, but as Humans say, who cares?

When we reach the floor, entwined in a way I have dreamt about, I am abruptly concerned about my inadequacy. She will know, and I do not wish to mislead her or embarrass either of us any further, so I tell her I have not kissed like this before. She nods her head, thankfully silent and accepting, but I feel I must explain. "Vulcans do not show affection in this manner. In particular the Vulcan woman I coupled with did not show _me_ affection. I--" She cuts me off by telling me, with her face soft and close to mine, that she has enough affection to make up for what I've missed. For what that foolish woman missed. I am amazed and grateful that she is allowing me to meet her mouth.

She places my hands on her back and my anxiety both increases and dissolves --a paradox I file for later review. That she wants me to touch her more intimately is extremely unexpected. Despite the salacious images that have been in my mind recently, I am nervous. The curve of her back, leading to her buttocks, is more disorienting than my first spacewalk. My fingers spasm and clutch in confusion. I find my body reacting in the most base and mortifying ways, and I cannot stop seeking her with my hips. Hopelessly, because she pulls away and does not allow my pelvis to touch her.

I fear she will leave and the burning will never stop.

*****

I take it easy on him.

He's never done this. I'm both shocked that such a gorgeous man hasn't taken advantage of his many opportunities, and also not surprised at all because he's so inept and aloof. He pulls back from kissing me to make a few severely uncomfortable confessions. He seems to need to explain, awkwardly, that he's never kissed anyone this way before. That, in fact, he has done the deed itself but in a clinical way to assuage a physical need. He hasn't done _any_ of the companion fun. No flirting and teasing, no slow, sensual touches, no tongues anywhere, not on his face, ears, lips, chest, legs, penis. I get him to admit to that last one by withholding my kisses until he tells me the whole truth, and he blushes green and hard and stumbles when he answers in the negative.

I am by no means a girl who gets around, but compared to him I have a PhD. There are many, many things I can teach him. I tell him so and he is visibly relieved, his upright shoulders softening, his head dipping once more to meet me in a deep kiss. He murmurs something indecipherable into the kiss, and it makes our lips vibrate together.

But I don't want to kill the boy, yet. I simply begin his education with this most fundamental and erotic act of kissing. I want this first lesson to last a long, long time, both for his sake and mine. I want to immerse myself in every second of this experience.

His arms are stiff and hesitant, so I position them around me and move his hand down the curve of my lower back. And though I put him there myself, the feeling of that graceful, strong hand still surprises me and sends hot spikes of desire through my core. My tongue meets his over and over, and he pushes up partially on his knees and tries to meet my hips. He is much taller than I am, and I twist away to make him wait for contact, so his aim is far from perfect. But against my side I can feel the reaction inside his tightening pants. He's getting the idea. I want to respond by positioning my hips and grinding into him, but I also want to take things deliciously slow. So I gently push him away, then lean forward to kiss more. I love exploring his sweet, heart-shaped mouth. He gets better and better at the kissing, letting his tongue turn soft and lovely. His mouth becomes like creamy hot chocolate, and I drink deeply.

After a time we release each other's mouths. Both of us are panting, and I breathe into his lips "I have to go." His eyes snap to mine, terrified, and his hands grip my waist hard. I realize he thinks I will not come back. I stroke a finger over his lips, and I assure him I will see him and hold him and kiss him again. I tell him it's just too much, too fast. In reality, I want to savor the freshness of new intimacy. How he still smells new to me, feels firm under my hands. I have to keep us both wanting each other this much. So I summon up my willpower, and I leave him in a burning heap on the floor of the basement lab. The door swishes behind me and he doesn't see my besotted smile.

It's begun, and now I can't turn off the new, raw excitement and yearning. It takes a will of iron not to turn back and go farther and farther with him right now. It's sad how clinical sex has been for him. I want to run right back into that lab and fuck him properly, watch his eyes as we do it, feel his skin. But I stay the course. I want our flirtation, our discovery, his sweet, sweet education to last forever.

I am happily numb as I walk to my dorm, realizing halfway there that the poor, poor boy probably doesn't even know how to masturbate.

I go to dinner with my friends, but my mind is floating. While I sip coffee it reminds me of drinking him in. Back at the dorm, I shower and tease myself by replaying our make-out session in my mind but not touching myself. Soon I become consumed and I can think only one thought, one that will utterly preoccupy me if I don't find out soon: When can I be with him again?

*****


	5. Pet

*****

Outside of caring for my most basic personal needs, I use my brain for nothing but thinking about how to get her in my arms again. I am so preoccupied I consider disregarding classes for a day to hide feverishly in my room, but this is unheard of and cowardly. I meditate until I have the minimum ability to leave my dorm, walk to class, and attend lectures with a force of will.

I sit far back from her this time, but I feel the space between us bend and contract until I can nearly feel her tongue in my mouth.

Even as I listen and take notes, I consider paradoxes. Being Vulcan means to adopt a philosophy, a way of life which is logical and beneficial. I cannot disregard that philosophy merely for personal gain, no matter how important that gain might be. However, to deny my nature as a man would be illogical and unreasonable. I become caught in a loop, claiming reason as justification for unreasonable behavior. For two minutes exactly this keeps my mind off the teasing memory of her body pulling away from mine every time I thrust toward her.

My eyes watch the instructor, my hands take notes, my mind returns to lusting. She said she would return to me, touch me again. How can this exquisite creature want to do such intimate things with me?

After class I am mentally spent and I send her a straightforward message with a time to report to my room. Two seconds after I send it I consider it was imperious. My hand stops just centimeters from typing another message. I have made a mess of my mind and body and perhaps it is best that I allow our lust to turn to disgust in her mind, forcing me to finally end my anguish and move on. I sit on my bed in deep misery and my roommate declares he is leaving, going to his girlfriend's room for the night, where no one is "being so gloomy." I move my self-pity to a prone position, in a hopeless attempt to rest.

I am shocked when she arrives. I cannot close and lock my door fast enough behind her.

She tells me my message was rude and I deserve something called a "tongue lashing." This amuses her. I do not ask why. Why spend time trying to understand the whirring of her lovely mind? It is a worthwhile challenge but could take a lifetime, and I find I cannot wait that long. I am far more forward than ever, and I do things that stun us both. I push her against the door and initiate our kiss this time. Against the hard surface, she cannot escape my pelvis, and the friction she denied me before, that I have obsessed about since, now both relieves and consumes me. I mash myself into her yielding body. It causes her to exhale and moan slightly, almost imperceptibly, and I understand that my actions are acceptable.

She pulls at the hem of my shirt and leads me to take it off. I do so with alacrity. Without the trappings of control applying much anymore, I realize that I do it eagerly and with pleasure. She pulls her own shirt off and I'm introduced to her breasts and skin, contained in a nearly translucent undergarment. My heart beat increases and the throbbing between my legs accelerates and I whine humiliatingly. She responds to the sound, her face relaxing in pleasure, her breasts thrusting toward me. They move up and outward as she reaches to her hair to release it from a tall and complex form that comes apart surprisingly quickly.

Her hands move behind herself, she releases her bra, and I am suddenly faced with and entranced by her nudity. Wisps of her long pale hair hide small portions of her breasts' beauty. While some irrelevant portion of my mind catalogs their color, shape and size, I also react to her breasts entirely physically and cannot stop myself from reaching out to touch one with two fingers, its softness a revelation. The change in texture as I move from breast to areola to nipple is fascinating. I no longer care that I can't control my body.

We peel clothing off and drop it to the floor, and at first I have a spasm of distress at the disorder. Yet this entire situation is unconnected to my usual behavior. And I am in a hurry. Apparently she has not worn the usual uniform tights. She pulls her skirt down, lets it drop to the floor, and when I see her legs disappearing into her tall black boots, I nearly ejaculate. I forcefully clamp down with my mind. To buy myself a short time. I'm not sure how long.

I am acutely aroused, but also curious, as I reach for her undergarments. Her hand suddenly and forcefully blocks mine. She shakes her head no. She also indicates I should "keep my shorts on." Since this is, for once, a Human expression that makes direct sense, I don't know why she laughs.

I do not spend time considering the nature of humor. For the second time in two days I find myself entwined with her. Now she is running her fingers down my ear, cheekbone, jawline, neck, onto my shoulders. I feel a trail of sparking energy wherever she touches and travels. Taking an extended period of time, she runs her hands along my chest and stomach and I am unable to control myself vocally. She runs a single finger under the waistband of my pants causing me to make an embarrassingly incoherent sound. A sort of sound I find myself stupidly repeating all evening.

She makes it known I should remove my pants, and I do not waste time. She skips the part of my body that most desperately needs contact and continues her hands' journey down my legs and to my calves, her face centimeters from the fabric that separates us, so that I can feel her breath.

We move to my small bed, the size of which suddenly has no meaning. I let her position me so I am lying on my side. She reaches behind me and runs her hand up the back of my legs and when she touches my buttocks my entire body clenches and wants and I am sure I grunt like an idiotic animal. She looks pleased.

She lays back, stretches her arms above her head, making her breasts stand up in a way that makes the blood throb in my veins and penis. I work hard not to climax and lose the opportunity to continue. She says "explore me" and I am struck dumb once again, this time by the unimaginable sight of this most beautiful woman lying in my bed, waiting for me to touch her intimately. I find her skin a most fascinating tactile experience. I move my sensitive hands tentatively, then soon press and rub harder, which makes her moan and catches me in a loop of touch, arousal, and need. When I get to the waist of her soft undergarments my mind stumbles at the reality of where I am, with her, where my hands are. I look at my fingers, implausibly whispering over her stomach, pale skin matching hers.

I reach to remove her last bit of clothing and she slithers away, escaping to the foot of the bed where she bends her knees and lets her feet touch the floor. An emphatic no. I respect her wishes.

I get off the bed and go to her feet, kneel to adore her, and I slide my hands down her legs slowly. When I reach the heels of her indecent boots I move my hands back up behind her calves and embrace them, placing my head against her booted legs and breathing in a mixture of her scent and leather. An uncalculated and far more spontaneous action than is typical for me. Her reaction is quite encouraging. Eventually I slide back up her body.

I yearn for her to remove that teasing bit of fabric. But in a moment of panic, I realize that if she does remove that last small triangle of modesty, I will be faced with the greatest unknown, and I will inevitably perform some wrong, or at least unimpressive, action. I pull away and I can feel my face fill with blood. I know she can feel my continuing erection in wretched detail. An erection that I have had since the moment she arrived, and is now hurting. I am able to withstand more pain that the average Human, but I have never been tested in this way, felt pain in this swollen part of my body.

I must appear afflicted, because she looks at me with tenderness and says that I am a gorgeous, brilliant lover and that it's just too much, too soon. It's kind of her to compliment me, but I do not believe her. She looks into my eyes and I see her make a decision, then she grinds her hips into mine without reserve and with a seductive and uncontrolled growl. It is the loudest, most animal, and most promising sound I have ever heard from a woman. Despite the cloth between us, I feel that she is moist and my body knows what that means and can no longer stand it. I am enraptured and emotionally unchecked and in pain and at a precipice and my underwear fills with hot semen that instantly turns cold and humiliating.

She pulls away from me and I believe she is disgusted. That she will flee the room with nausea and live out her time at this academy without once looking at me again. Instead she looks happy as she gazes into my eyes, satisfied, then places her face against my neck and purrs.

The misery gone in a rush of relief, my body relaxes in a way it never has. Once she assures me that she is not horrified by my lack of control, my mind begins to follow and for once I drift softly into sleep.

*****

I almost couldn't endure it.

I planned to go only so far. I meant to introduce him to the sacred art and experience of hands sliding over bodies. I could not believe it was I who'd show it to him first. I was sweetly tortured by the idea of being the _object_ of his long, elegant fingers' first affectionate explorations, and I didn't want it to be over too fast.

He almost made it impossible, because when I entered his room he seized me and threw me up against the door, and his luscious hips and beginning of a beautiful erection pressed and ground into me and I nearly threw him into bed. I helped him pull his clothes off, and my eyes took him in piece by piece. He was as ravishing as everyone thinks under that uniform. His black t-shirt promised the most beautiful, muscular arms and chest. It was so hot I nearly left it on, but I wanted his skin even more. His pale, luminescent skin. I forced myself to stop at his pants, allowing myself a moment to accept and enjoy what we were doing.

And to feel how hard he was, so immediately, straining against those pants. He was so much more aggressive, and so intensely gorgeous and desiring. I kept wavering. _Iron will, iron will_ I chanted inside my head. I really wanted to see him discover and explore touch thoroughly, before moving on to more nasty stuff. In the recesses of my bran I thought of how his eyebrows would meet if I ever used that expression out loud. I trace those lush and sexy eyebrows, and the reality of them under my fingers made me swoon, but I kept my panties on--made him keep his underwear on—tantalizing us both.

His hesitant brushes and caresses nearly made me cry with pleasure, but also with fondness. I watched his deep eyes change and wonder as his fingers explored my breasts, then squeezed harder, giving me the pressure I needed. When he hugged my legs with my boots on, it was purely erotic. When he came, I was done for. Just a few days ago he'd begged me simply to kiss him. Tonight he had me salivating and hoping and nearly begging _him_ for more.

Now I'm here, in his arms in his too-small dorm bed, the light dim, clothes on the floor and his head on my chest. His underwear damp against my legs. He fell asleep, quickly and completely. I hold him and stroke his fine hair, stroke his ear, the places I once wanted to touch in my dreams, that now are here and are completely mine in this quiet moment. I gently lower his head to the pillow and get up, put my clothes back on to join my boots, so I can go to the bathroom in the hall and look at myself in the mirror. To see what a glowing, Vulcan-touched me looks like. I wet a towel with warm water and go back to his room.

I have an impulse to do something, but I'm not sure I should, not sure it's okay. I struggle with the idea for a minute and come to the conclusion that we're intimate with one another and what I'm doing is tender and even, my mind kind of spasms at the word, loving. Besides, he's so deeply asleep, not moving in any way, hardly even breathing. It's likely the best sleep of his life, and that is so damn sweet.

I pull back the blankets, reach to the waistband of his underwear and pull the wet cotton down his legs and off. I even try to not look too hard. But that's ridiculous. How can I not stare intensely at his pale green penis, so stunning and thick even at rest. I wipe him off gently with the warm towel and pull the blankets up over him.

I don't want to be gone in the morning, leaving him wondering and sad. But I really shouldn't stay here. I hate to do it, but I wake him up to say goodbye. He is sleepy and confused and demands that I stay, but in a tired slur like a child. It melts my heart and makes my panties flush with wetness. I tell him I need to go back to my room so both of our roommates won't get involved. He is agreeing, while also reaching to pull me to him again, when he realizes he is nude. His eyebrows meet in a deep V and he gives me a completely bewildered look.

"You were…you…needed a warm bath."

The look on his face is priceless. His eyes are forlorn, and he flushes deep green and actually hangs his head. I lean down and whisper in his ear, "Next time I remove your pants maybe you'd like to be awake?" He sighs and groans together in one sound and lets his head fall back to his pillow, resigned and dead.

I leave him to sleep. Or probably not.

*****


	6. Flower

*****

I have seldom stroked myself to climax. For two logical reasons it now seems prudent to start.

First, it will allow me the release I need to continue a productive life as a student and Starfleet Cadet. Second, I know that most Vulcans can control their sexual responses. I am only half Vulcan but I may, to use a Human term, "have what it takes." Learning to do this will alleviate the desperation and pain that keep me from becoming a generous equal in intimate matters. Developing this skill will allow me to prolong our pleasure. Her pleasure.

Logically, to learn one must practice.

Her schedule is such that I find myself with four long days alone. Four days before she will have any time to even consider seeing me.

I begin the process in the shower, a place I often think of her. Counter-intuitively, the water makes smooth motions harder to produce. So I turn it off, brace my feet on the shower's edges, place one hand on the wall and the other on my penis. This first time is focused on release, to create the clarity of mind I need. I haven't done this since I was a boy, and I start out simply holding myself, which already feels pleasant. I squeeze and pleasant is no longer in my vocabulary, because there is an electric pulse charging through my pelvis and legs. I begin to move my hand and quickly, after only a few strokes, I climax on the shower wall with great gasps and consider for the first time that this was a poor choice of location, every breath echoing on the hot tile. I do not vocalize, a first achievement of sorts.

The next incident, a half hour later, is my first exploration into controlling my response. I remove my pants completely and sit on the edge of my bed, spreading my knees so I can see myself objectively. I find I need to make my hand wet, and I use a distasteful but expedient technique. Then I rub myself like I did in the shower, but without the desensitizing water the experience is completely different and I become erect quickly. Once again my body feels electrified. I tentatively try to use my mind to lessen my response. I near climax over and over, forcefully stopping myself a number of times before letting go. I find the process of remaining physically aroused, while specifically controlling my arousal in this one crucial part, is difficult. To enjoy touching, kissing, caressing, and to give these experiences to her without losing myself too soon, I need to achieve this paradoxical skill. I work on it during my free time, to become ready for her.

On the fourth day we have class together. I sit several rows behind her, and with the steep rake of the auditorium I can see her clearly in sharp detail. Her back sloping tenderly under her red sweater, disappearing into her short skirt. My hands nearly clutch at thinking about touching her there, where back meets buttocks. I recall how last time we kissed the cotton of her underwear began there and thwarted my hands. As she writes on her padd, her head drops with attention, her shoulders move infinitesimally. Her pale hair falls like water, one free piece forming a gentle fall around her down turned face. I have become a masturbator for her.

I wryly note that I have also become a Romantic poet.

I recall Christopher's thoughts regarding women staring and whispering about me. It is now unquestionable that they do. I once thought this was due to my alien nature, my oddness. But now I recognize the source as something new and pleasant. My stare, my perusal of her beauty, must be so direct and burning everyone can see it. The way I gaze on her, there is no question as to our relationship. And in an instant I think that word, relationship, and instead of unnerving me it makes me warm. I belong to her and the Human part of me--the primary part right now--wants the other cadets to see it.

For the forty-seventh time this week, I reflect on what a wise decision I made in coming to Starfleet, in not completing the Kohlinar and spending my hours, days, years in the pursuit of science and repression. It was a decision of intense, life-altering gravity, and I in no way take it lightly, or as a prurient joke. I am honestly grateful to myself, for allowing myself a rich inner life.

When I look at her, I let myself feel something. Rather than causing my mind to clamp down and plan for in-depth meditation after class, I have completely un-Vulcan responses--pride, possessiveness, affection, desire--and I don't much care. Because her hair is lush and pale and hangs down her back. She always wears it swept up in a tall and complex shape that accentuates her neck but does not adequately show off the hair's subtle color and fine texture. Today it is loose, in a manner I know is calculated to provoke me.

So be it. It does. I send her a message asking when we can meet, and she indicates her room at 21:00. I type back, "You will remove all your clothing. Non-negotiable." I see her stiffen in her seat. She turns her head to meet my eyes, and I smirk nearly unnoticeably. She turns forward again and crosses her legs tightly.

*****

He is a wicked tease.

It seems unbelievable, after the awkwardness and hesitation of our first several meetings. After his embarrassment and tenderness last time we were together in his room. But somehow since that night he's changed. In just four days apart, evolved into the kind of man who sends me a dirty message. Still a cute, innocent boy. Just one who commands me to get undressed, when I have several hours before I can actually do it. Damn him. I'm amazed how short a time it took for him to wrap me around his finger. Well, he will tonight anyway, I think wryly and with a dampness in my panties.

He arrives at my room exactly at 21:00 and looks delectable. Ravishing in that black t-shirt again, and I can only guess he's come from training, because he's wearing black loose pants everyone wears for martial arts and weapons classes. And where I thought he looked gorgeous in his uniform, this is a new kind of drop-dead hotness.

I can't help but look him up and down, and kind of murmur "mmmmmm." He walks into my room and rather than kiss me, sits on my bed and levels a most impassive yet come-hither gaze at me. How does he do that? I don't spend much time wondering, because seconds later one of his sexy eyebrows rises as if to say "Well, girl?" And I straddle him in no time and take my first deep kiss. How we got here to the bed without kissing at the door, behind the door, near the door I don't know, but I really like what's happening now.

He almost becomes the boy of the other night, kissing hungrily as if each kiss is the last ever. But I can feel him ratchet down. He's deliberately getting comfortable, with doing this, with the idea of what he wrote to me. He doesn't want to race through and waste and lose this experience. He's getting like me. And payback is going to be a warm and wonderful bitch.

I pry myself off his lap and stand above him. "You know I got your message. Since your terms are non-negotiable, I suppose I should get on with complying." He swallows hard. He sits on the edge of my bed with his long legs bent, hands resting on his knees, and I can barely keep from dropping down between those legs. I stay the course, peel my clothes off slowly and deliberately, and his deep, dark eyes get moist and curious.

When I get to my lacy panties I put two fingers in the waistband and lock eyes with him. He seems nervous, and I actually feel that way too. I'm surprised I do. I thought I would be the aggressive one, the teacher, and I find myself shyly pushing down the one last piece of clothing left. I reveal my body, and the air on my skin is both erotic and frightening. He sweetly looks into my eyes before dropping his gaze, and then he flushes with copper blood and reaches out a tentative hand. I take it in mine, pull it to my mouth, and suck two of his fingers. He groans and looks questioning, and then gets the idea when I lead him to my labia and he explores and opens me. He watches me intently, watches my eyes, and I watch his while he does this beautiful new thing. He gently pushes one wet finger into me and I can't remember ever feeling anything else. It is so slow and hard and persistent, and he slides until he's up to his knuckles in me. Oh fuck. I start to whine.

I tell him to add another finger, and he does and I open and feel him fill me. I move on his fingers, grind my hips and push against his steady hand. I need to lie down. I move to join him on the bed. He continues pushing into me with his fingers, pressing and filling me, and now kissing me at the same time. I breathe in his animal, boy scent, and he leans in to nuzzle my neck as I writhe. I've prolonged this so long, wanted him so much, it doesn't take long. A tingling builds in me and as his fingers work in and out, I show him how to place his thumb on my clitoris and I cry out and come hard and wild and slide into a melted pool of bliss.

I take a moment to pant and revel, and then I get up one elbow and tell him it's his turn. He stands, self-consciously but happily undresses down to his underwear, and then like me he becomes shy. I smile at him lazily, flooded with release, and he is encouraged and pulls his last bit of clothing off. I guess I "mmmmmm" out loud again, because he very nearly smiles and climbs back onto the bed with me, pressing the length of his nude body against mine for the first time. My heart seems to swoop and drop and I enclose one of his broad shoulders with my free arm and press into him with my whole self.

I feel him begin to rise against my leg and I realize we have gotten this far without him getting hard. He's always been aroused instantly. This is far more leisurely and so hot, and I can see he wants to take his time with me, with us.

I reach down to get my first touch of his penis, and I sigh with the soft skin and hardness building underneath. He hisses and sucks in breath and I am so pleased that just a touch from my hand feels that good. I reach to my bedside table and get the lube I need to make this really wonderful. I watch his eyes as I spread it on my fingers, then I begin to move on him, gently work up and down his length from root to tip. His face goes slack with pleasure, in a way no one ever sees his hard features and visage. I get my personal view of a sloppy, sex-drunk un-Vulcan boy. I like it. As I move a bit faster, he starts jutting his hips toward me in a steady rhythm, grunting quietly. I close my hand very slightly tighter and he begins to pant and grunt harder and move faster and he pushes erratically into my hot hand.

Then stops. He asks if he may touch me again. Hell yes. He puts two fingers on my clitoris and asks if it's the best place to touch to make me feel good. It's the primary one, yes. He is tentative, and I show him, with my hand on top of his, how to press and move the way I love. He pays rapt attention to me and in a short time makes a tingling rise in me and I hover near the precipice and then go over, coming again. Stars in my eyes, I barely realize that he hasn't climaxed. When I come to my senses, I reach for him again and continue what I was doing before. This time he lets me, lets himself, finish. He thrusts into my burning hand and comes gloriously, with a sound that is a groan and whine and bark and very, very satisfying.

We kiss gently, his tongue so soft and feeling new again. I'm tired and I roll over on my side, my back to him. He pulls a blanket over us and then fits himself against my back. His arm comes around to hold me, snug against me from my shoulders to my toes. We are turned toward the window, looking into the dark night sky. I wonder all the time, over and over, at how tall he is. He easily rests his chin on the top of my head and stays there, silently. But I can feel he's not totally relaxed.

Finally he murmurs into my hair. "I feel deep affection toward you. I hope you know how much." He pauses for an oddly quiet moment. "I am not able to express it in words." He does not move, doesn't look at me, simply continues looking forward at the window, and I look forward with him.

I tell him he does just fine expressing himself without words. I push back into his hot body and purr.

He is not yielding.

"You know I cannot…" he trails off and stops, his body now rigid, and my comfort and happiness drop out from under me. He's about to hurt me. I feel a sharp twist in my gut when I realize he is now leaving me, is telling me right now. I think bitterly that tonight was my parting gift. I try to keep my breathing even as tears begin to singe the corners of my eyes, and I'm glad he's behind me, can't see me. Finally, he continues. "…I cannot…will not…show this kind of physical affection in public…" And he kisses my hair, burrows into it and sighs. "I only hope that showing it here, alone, will satisfy you. If it does not, I do not begrudge you the decision to--"

"--Stop, don't speak anymore, please" I whisper, and I'm sure my voice is harsh from nearly crying. I'm awash with relief. He's not leaving me. He's professing something difficult. I breathe hard, air flowing again.

"I've hurt you."

I tell him no, he's made me incredibly warm and happy. I don't tell him what I thought he was about to say.

Finally I focus on what he did say. It will be hard to never kiss each other at dinner, never hold hands or touch foreheads outside in the fall air, lie on the grass in a spontaneous sunny moment. But that's not who my man is. I know who he is here, in my bed, my room, my heart. I assure him our feelings for one another are enough for me. Even if his lie under a Vulcan surface. I respectfully test this line in the sand with an innocent suggestion, meant to be light and cute. But when I speak it's more raw and shy than I expected. "I would like to sit close to you." The tears almost come.

His arm tightens very slightly around me. "That is acceptable."

"People will know we're together."

"I would be happy for all of Starfleet to know. We are _for_ one another. The thought of sharing this truth with everyone is…appealing to me. In fact, I believe I have already shared it involuntarily for some time." I laugh. "I simply cannot display it in the typical, physical ways a Human would."

I breathe. Breathe. Get hold of my emotions, then ask him, "How about I show it in the way a Human woman who cares for a Vulcan man would?"

I can feel him actually smile into my hair as he speaks. "And how is that?"

"Sitting close to you in the library."

Suddenly he sits up in bed, the blanket falling away, and he says "Let me show you an additional way. A Vulcan way. It could be surreptitiously achieved while sitting close to one another, but it is a kiss." Then as if he has caught himself being a happy boy, "We could occasionally share it when we are nearly alone, if we are careful. It would not register as a kiss with anyone but us."

He takes my forearm and pulls it toward him while I complain good naturedly about how we can _reveal_ our relationship and sit _physically close_ but not kiss, except we _can_ kiss if it's the Vulcan way. He shushes me and holds out his middle and index finger together and says "Kiss me." I position my fingers the same way and he touches mine. We slide together, and I close my eyes and it is just the same as touching mouths. It is divine.

*****


	7. Swirl

*****

I once thought Humans had gushing, disgusting emotional responses to their lovers. That I had no desire to explore sexual relations and no need or tolerance for the concomitant emotions. As a Vulcan, that lack of desire was correct and expected.

I identify myself as Vulcan, but behind closed doors I now allow the most vulgar and sentimental parts of my Human self to come out. And enjoy it. I have seen her more than a handful of times now, and my pleasure only increases. This admission brings to the surface all the complexity, and conflict, I usually submerge. The conflict that is asserting itself more and more forcefully in my mind now that I've touched every part of her silken body, now that she has worked her hot fingers all over my penis, now that her fingernails have brushed my chest and my fingers have found her wet. The differences between my public and private, Human and Vulcan selves become stark, the transitions more difficult.

I recall her hair in my mouth as I breathed her in and spoke about affection.

We are cadets, students, young, equals. There is no reason to keep ourselves from sharing a mutual fondness. The people around us all move fluidly into and out of relationships, enjoy one another, feel freely. I admit internally that I feel for her--admit it to her. In our rooms I slide my fingers into her in an act that embraces and intensifies feelings, and I do it with desire and what for a Vulcan constitutes wild abandon.

Flowing from our regard for one another, these sexual actions are logical. They are also private, so keeping them behind closed doors is logical. This is all conveniently conducive to remaining Vulcan. But does being Vulcan count if it is only on the outside? Or is that not what it is essentially about? Hiding the deep oceans of emotion and desire that do exist below the surface?

I can meditate throughout the night, every night, and all I achieve is a logic loop that fuels endless self-generated misery. A loop punctuated by unbidden, sharp recollections of her scent, her legs, the texture of her breasts, the intimacy of my body cupping hers completely, her breath, how it steadies and deepens as she enters sleep. Her face in sleep, completely trusting and childlike, her hair silver in the gathering dark.

Is it so wrong to find her beautiful?

Into this grinding thought process walks my lover. I am between classes, head down reading a padd as I stride. She startles me and I nearly smile before remembering myself. We find a place to sit, and though there is an expanse of bench large enough for at least three people, she sits close to me, the way she said she would. She smiles in a way that manages to be both publicly acceptable and just for me. Though we have walked closely together off campus, this is the first time she has come this near to me here at the academy, where our peers can see us. I experience fear, pleasure, acceptance.

She takes out a padd and leans in close to point out some words to me, and I cannot focus on them and instead focus on her scent. She looks up to meet me with gleaming eyes, and she is happy. I feel a rush of relief that she wants to be near. And I have to admit a rush of blood to more intimate places. At this exact moment what seems like swarms of cadets pass by in both directions and my head snaps up to watch them pass. They are comically numerous and most take a moment from their bustling to stare at us, some quite nearly open-mouthed. I redouble my efforts at proper outward appearance, and to the few who look directly at me I nod. Some look at her angrily. I do not know why. I am accustomed to stares and incivility, and I respond by wanting to protect her, but she does not look up or notice a single one of them. I cherish her at that moment, so completely accepting of me and my way of existence. So comfortable she does not even observe the mental inquisitiveness, the discourtesy I see. I begin the mental process of no longer caring about anything but us.

Is it so wrong to be normal?

She asks me to assist her with studying for her language survey course. She is a mathematician, and as such must pass one basic language course for which she claims she has no aptitude. I scan my mind for traces of the ancient master DaVinci. A bird is just a mechanical instrument ruled by mathematical laws. She works within these laws, and flies.

We have spent three "dates" very simply--walking in the brisk nights, in the city, away from here, buying coffee or tea at a kiosk brightly lit in the dark, talking about subjects ranging from Fermat's last theorem to the décor of her childhood bedroom. We walk beside each other, not touching. I keep my hands behind my back, not only because it is my usual public stance, but also because it keeps me from succumbing to my numerous impulses to touch her when she laughs. Each time we walk, we arrive at one of our rooms where we do touch, explore, draw closer. Where I free myself to observe her in detail as she sleeps and I remain awake and hungrily watching. I consider the metaphoric nature of Fermat's "remarkable proof" we all seek and which cannot be found. Will I agree to miss a few hours of this pleasure to help with her language skills? She needs me. Those words set something off. While her mouth forms the words, I stare at her lips and wish to lick them thoroughly. I watch her hair swing over her shoulder and I want to grab the entirety of it in one hand and pull rather hard until her mouth meets mine. Truth be told, I want to make love to her. She wants to study? I agree. To anything.

I picture my mother's loving face the day I left to come here to the academy. She was happy for me, but I ascertained it was not happiness solely due to my new academic opportunities. While neither of us would ever express it, her eyes held a lifetime of hope that one day I might find all of this--companionship, affection, sensuality, sexuality, perhaps even the possibility for love--that I have found.

I sit on a bench close to a girl I want to dive into. If Mother knew what I was doing she would be, for the two-thousandth time, such a proud mother.

*****

It's strangely sentimental for a dingy basement lab.

We descend to the darkness of the place we first touched, first kissed. We were sitting on a bench, talking about studying, feeling electricity spark and fill the space he requires between us. He stood abruptly and said "Walk with me," and I did.

The first time he said those words I was angry. I thought he was an arrogant jerk. But over a short time I've seen his arrogance from the inside and he's turned gorgeous in my eyes once more. His eyes are shy. His eyebrows, sex incarnate. His mouth, a heart of pink lushness I want to dive into all the time, every time I see his face. The way he stands, holds himself, so tall, dark and intelligent. The way he wears a uniform like no one else. It falls perfectly over his trim body, inspiring all kinds of reveries. How was he so awkward so few weeks ago? He's a rock.

I thought I was no one's pet. My man is a shy genius, drop-dead hot and all for me and at the moment I'd sit, stay and fetch for him.

He is an alien alone and very, very hot in the eyes of so many people on this campus--a singular combination that's a recipe for all kinds of trouble. For both reasons, he is a curiosity, and one people want to follow, gawk at, and salivate over. Because I'm his lover, but now also--my mind no longer trips up around these words--his girlfriend, I am an object of jealousy, mostly from women, and betrayal, mostly from men. I work hard to protect him from this attention. My mind churns and loops--he's strong, he's vulnerable, he is a rock, he needs me, needs my protection from the idiots around us. He's not blind, I know he perceives their stares. I simply treat him, treat us, as utterly normal.

The truth is, we are utterly normal and I utterly need him and I utterly love him.

He backs into the dark lab and without a shadow of emotion in his face, crooks a finger and says "Come on," and I'm sunk deep in desire. It's the most flirtatious thing I've seen him do, and it makes me ache and want. Without turning on the light he picks me up by my hips, spins us around and easily carries me to the low console, where he puts me down rather abruptly. He plants his hands on either side of my hips and dips his head down, down to kiss me deeply and hungrily. It takes my breath away, but I gasp out "This is a public place."

"I have not observed a single person coming here in the several months I've used this room."

That makes me giggle, and in the dark I can just make out one raised eyebrow. I provoke him. "Used it. For various purposes?"

He nuzzles my neck and whispers "only with you" and my giggles turn into a breathless moan. He takes one of my legs in his hands and begins to unzip my boot. I suddenly don't care what he's up to. My mind has focused down on this one sensual moment, and there is no other world outside his hands exposing my calf. He sets my boot aside and unzips the other, both discarded gently on the floor. In one elegant move he takes off my tights and panties, leaving my lower body in just my shockingly short regulation skirt. I breathe deeply with anticipation of whatever pleasure he plans to give me.

He falls back into a rolling lab chair, comes to me, takes my thighs in his hands and pushes them up and open. A thrill whips through me, and a wave of blood rushes to my sex and my legs tingle in the cold air of this unused room. Eyes adjusting to the dark, I can just see his long fingers on my thighs, his sleek hair and luminescent ears between my legs, and then he does it and the fingers and the hair and the ears and the cold air and all other rational or substantial things vanish. His hot tongue dives into me.

I gasp and grab his head, hard, and my gasp turns to an mmmmmmnnnn. His tongue is thick and feels like good lava. He plunges into me over and over, then removes his tongue and I whimper and try to push him back into me. He raises my thighs higher and begins to lick and I convulse around his tongue. He swirls up over my clitoris and down the other side, making aching circles before landing again in my sweetest, yearning spot. This bliss continues until it can't any longer because I come so hard with such indecent and animal sounds, my most intimate lips grasping at his tongue as if to keep it inside me forever. I am drained, empty of physical need. But I need him more than ever. I can't explain.

He hands me my underwear and tights and tells me we have 3.2 minutes until class begins. It's just upstairs, but I need to get dressed and straightened and I get to it quickly. With my hands wound in my tights I look up and ask "Are you going to be chivalrous and wait for me?" His eyebrows draw into a pretty V. "I would never leave you in such a state." I think about class, hard seats, uncomfortable desks, droning I should care about.

Oh, he has no idea what state he's left me in.

*****


	8. Rend

*****

The very fact that I care or do not care about emotion is a simple circular proof of my demise. It is also a clear sign of the recursive nature of my recent actions. The fact that I pulled her into the downstairs lab and aggressively tasted her, has led me here to her bed where I will take her, and we will make love.

The uppermost Vulcan part of my brain thinks I have completed the steps necessary to obtain this goal. That part of my brain is idiotic. It is true I have applied myself in some ways to logically arrive here, her sheets tangled around our legs, her hair damp with sweat, spread on her pillow, her eyes blue fire. But in no way does the logical progression that got me here matter. Not at all.

I enjoy falling into her mouth, but we have been touching, kissing, for what seems like a thousand Earth days. It is a simple equation, she is wet, I am erect, and yet more complex and subtle than calculating the drift of a subspace flowfield.

In her eyes I see yearning of a kind I have not seen before, and, pleasingly, unexpectedly, trust. Her eyes are so unlike the stony, averted ones of my only other partner. Her eyes propel me into confidence and after wanting and thinking through this moment dozens of times, I make one final resolution and roll on top of her. Just being in this position makes a jolt race through me. I am breathless, nervous. I have too many useless, negative memories about this act, mechanical, cold, required. I cannot wait much longer to have a different experience. I am too curious, and too hungry to wait. She is too lovely. My voice when I ask her is rasping and does not sound like me. She nods her head.

Slowly, I enter her.

As slowly as is possible, but the sensation of her surrounding my penis is stripping me mindless, reducing my control over the speed of penetration to near zero. Soft, lush. I push in as far as possible and look at her face. Her eyes are more open, so much wider than I have seen them, shining with liquid which is not falling as tears. She keeps her eyes locked to mine even as her head drifts down toward one shoulder, as if she has lost muscular control. She says, almost without sound, "Please."

I begin to move.

Her eyebrows are so much more delicate than those of a Vulcan woman. They are soft, blonde peaks. When I move inside her they rise up. Her face is strong, her nose somewhat wider than classical beauty dictates, which paradoxically makes her far more beautiful. Her lips are ample and right now they open like a blossom into a round shape of pleasure and surprise.

Most immediately, her blood-flushed lips and inner walls are silken, and I am consumed by pushing farther into her and pulling nearly entirely back out, in and out, in a gentle rhythm, slick, sliding. My hands caught up in her hair, hers on my back, pressing, lightly scratching, the sound she makes in my ears sends me drifting, I bend my head to give her the sounds I'm making. Her feet are so small as they pull on my buttocks. She licks my ear, her tongue swirls over it. Without a sign that she is there, she shakes all over and grasps at me, heaving, I feel her close around me, tighter, electrifying, sweeping, I climax and it feels like a thousand times a star ripped, myself ripped open. I grind out, in two final thrusts, _tresahk-tor_.

When I close my eyes, there is space and Earth's luminescent moon.

*****

Whenever I close my eyes, all day any day, all I can see is him. His dark eyebrows, nearly black eyes, the very palest skin I have ever known, and yet the most rich. And touchable. His pink lips, so full and ready. His expression all grave and awkward at the same time, never betraying an emotion, a raised eyebrow the only evidence that he wants to forcefully kiss me, push me up against his bedroom door, push me against a basement lab console and dip his tongue into me. I must be salivating. When I find myself at this point in my reverie, I realize I must keep my eyes open or never pass any of my classes. Most especially my darned language survey, the hardest of all because to study I need to be close to him and yet not touching, not thinking about hot sex.

Our relationship has unfolded over time, and it's beautiful, but I am so done, we're both done, being slow and lovely. When I think about how he might feel inside me, I get a disorienting shot of adrenaline. Then realize I have no idea what he will be like. I want him, his hot and substantial body on me, in a way I cannot begin to imagine and must vaguely and endlessly crave. When I dream about how it will feel, I stop breathing, in bed, in the shower, in class, at lunch, my roommate kicking me playfully under the table and repeating her favorite phrase, "Why don't you just fucking fuck him already?" Oh, it's not going to be a fuck. It's about to become making love and I'm ready.

He comes to my room, and begins speaking of modifiers. Neither of us can focus in the least, and we throw down our padds and hit each other full force. In under two minutes we're undressed and his incredible fingers are circling my nipples stoking a fire in me, his rising thickness against my side. We touch in detail and mounting passion, until I'm slick with sweat and though he does not sweat he is panting and flushed green, and I wonder for the millionth time about being with an alien, how easy and normal it is, how I don't remember it-even his delicate ears fading into normalcy-until I see something like his green-tinged face over me in bed.

Over me. He's rolled on top of me, and…Oh… my brain stops drifting and I realize just where we are. I inhale at the relief and joy of finally being here, underneath his solid weight, his body readying for me. I see something determined in his eyes, desiring and too hungry to wait. I want him, have wanted him inside me for so long. The way he looks at me now, like I'm dinner and he's starving, makes me give up containing myself any longer and I spread my legs so he can sink into my body, just the way he needs to, I need him to. I am open, he is right where he needs to be, and at the thought we might have to wait another second, I beg.

Slowly, he enters me.

It's so long-wanted, feels so good, I am so full and stretching my legs and self open to take him entirely in every way. I can't pry my eyes off him, but I can't control myself either. I can actually feel my eyes dilate with pleasure. Oh, he's waiting, all the way inside me, with wonder in his eyes.

He starts to move his hips.

I'm overcome with lightning, and bliss, and hunger. Engaged immediately in a struggle to grab enough of him in my arms, legs, feet. I'm growling and I latch onto him with everything I've got, terrified he might stop his agonizingly slow pumping and stroking. I meet him with my hips, and he reaches down and holds them, pinning me to the bed for a moment, making me suffer his slow loving. He's teasing me and watching my face. I know he has done this before, but oh, I didn't realize he'd know, oh holy, how to move so deliciously, not simply pressing into me, but his hips flowing. That he does this without open expression is somehow even more thrilling. I flow with him for as long as I can and feel a white-hot rising and clenching inside and I push harder up into him over and over and come with a raging joy. I shake all over and hold and pull on him inside and out. His own raging joy comes next, and I can tell it feels just the same way. He growls into me harder and faster and finally cries out with a word that sounds utterly uncontrolled and animal.

In the quiet, after us both coming like volcanoes, he slides along my skin gently, continuing and slowing the motions that brought us such explosion. He touches me with that great affection he can't talk about. He smoothes my hair off my sweaty face, tucks it behind one ear. Dips from his height to nuzzle my neck.

I feel shy, but ask him "What does it mean?"

Into my ear, I feel as well as hear him say "Hmmmmm?"

"The word you cried out. What does it mean?"

He stops, picks his head up to look at me, seems confused, then embarrassed. "I did vocalize a Vulcan word, didn't I? I am sorry, I could not control it."

That's my man. I smile. "I didn't want you to _control_ it. No way. I want to know what it _means_."

He burrows into my neck again, licks small dreamy circles moving up behind my ear, almost as if to make me go nuts and forget the topic. I wait. He does not look at me as he admits its meaning. "Rend." Kissing my neck sensually, whispering. "Rip to pieces."

His dark velvety voice, his tongue swirling on my neck. Ripped to pieces. I sigh and groan-mmmmm and close my arms around his neck, and we roll over so he lies flat on the bed and I rest my head on his chest. Once more there is beautiful silence and we simply rest. I run my first and middle fingers down his chest. "Is this like a kiss, if just I do it to you?" He inhales sharply. Yes, I see. He teaches me all the time about moments so much more intense because they are so seriously private. Not to be shared. He teaches me about being us. I tell him, but hesitantly because I'm not sure I've got it right. "_Saven'uh_?"

"Well done." I hear the amusement in his voice. "An imperative, using a weak verb."

I repeat, "_saven'uh_," demanding "teach," and he nearly laughs at my command.

He commands in return, "_Oren'uh_."

Study.

"I am." I answer while running my two fingers upward this time, from his stomach to his chest. And ask playfully, "This is how Vulcans flirt? Studying imperatives?"

"Not only imperatives." He grabs my hand, kisses my two fingers with his mouth. "Nouns." Kiss. "Possessives." I am swooning so hard I can only hold my breath, so silent. He traces the shape of my ear and whispers, "_Khio'ri_"

I catch my breath enough to rasp out "I don't know that one."

His words hum into my fingers. "Self-luminous celestial body."

*****


	9. Rise

*****

I cannot allow my face to betray what I am thinking. If only she knew.

I am dying to touch her. I now understand that Human phrase, dying to. We sit in the library on wooden chairs, and I can maintain my usual posture, maintain my outward appearance, but inside I am roiling with a number of thoughts. Uppermost, a strong wish to run my hand up her spine, from the waist of her skirt to her soft neck, plunging my hand into her hair and palming the back of her head.

My thoughts turn to cataloging her body, each part in turn. It has become a pastime of mine. I call up images of how her body was connected with mine when we most recently made love. Her head was, indeed, cradled in one of my hands. She is so small. Her eyes were sparkling under me, and when I raised my head and arched my back I could gaze into them as I moved. To my amazement, she rolled me over and straddled me, rode me. I had never seen a woman do this, and the sight of her body above me, taking me, her breasts swaying and her jaw slack with pleasure, was staggering. The phrase "take it in" came unbidden to the forefront of my mind and I struggled but failed to not say it aloud. She heard it. Her mouth made sounds like a small, beautiful animal, and she ground into me harder and faster, with a twist at the end of each thrust. My mind was torn apart and scattered, useless. Much later, when my Vulcan mind began to function again, it was with regret that I let it come. I did not like my Vulcan mind, and I had a strange thought: I don't think I ever did.

That thought is now subsumed, as I sit dressed, posture correct, in public, as little aroused as possible. I focus on the padd in front of us, her difficulty with possessives. The word itself, possessive, troubles me.

I have been experiencing a desire to command her to do things for me. I have often been abrupt in my interactions with Humans, and have been told I come off as demanding. Now I wish to literally be so, only with her. My mind throws up single, vulgar words at unexpected moments: submit, obey, kneel. I understand some Humans like this kind of sexual play, but just as many do not. So it is not a function of being half Human. Where has it come from, then? Does it come from being Vulcan--something I've not yet been made privy to about my race? Or does it simply originate inside me, individually? Yet another way for me to be odd.

I sit up in my wooden chair, the discomfort welcome. Desire should be controlled. It is not wrong. It is unruly. I look at her, respond to her questions, without expression. We are studying, nothing more.

The phrase "make me ready" comes to mind, sending a fast and substantial rush of blood to my penis.

Desire is not wrong. But it is messy. It makes vulgar, thrilling phrases turn up in my mind.

For the fourteenth time since we met in this library tonight, I press myself into correctness. I believe I overcompensate and am as cold as I seemed to her before we began our relationship. Though she has agreed to my expressionless behavior in public, I believe on some level I must be hurting her. I do not wish to ever hurt her. We are in a very public place, but I scan it visually and find a window of privacy in which to do something for her. Under the table, I slide my leg over to touch hers at the knee. I place my hand on my own knee and extend two fingers. She nearly gasps, remains facing forward but extends her fingers to meet mine. Like me, she tries not to smile.

*****

The kiss is so much more erotic than I expect. Always, the finger kisses are.

He's been watching me coldly, but I alone can see the desperate desire under his composed face. We've been talking about Vulcan possessives. "Vulcan possessives" sounds good to me, hot, which I try to ignore. I sense we both try to ignore the word. We both face forward, looking at our padds. We have to take some time to work. To do it we need to avoid beds anywhere, and what we can't keep from doing in them.

We talk about the patterns of language. He sweetly draws parallels with math, to encourage me. It's hardly what I'm thinking about.

I am physically and mentally shocked when he touches me with his knee. After all we do to one another nearly every night, and morning, wherever we can find a room without a roommate. After all that, sitting without touching in any way, without expression, can make the press of a knee seem the most deviant and thrilling activity. When his two fingers extend toward me, I am even more taken. Whenever he offers me one of his blinding Vulcan kisses, I fill with hot and impatient expectation.

After we kiss, he seems to relax just a little. Hardly enough to notice, except that I've come to know his body, his face. Oh heck, his body, his face. I can't stop lusting for him. Wondering why I can't steal just one Human kiss to go with the Vulcan one.

I tell him he is a good teacher, would make a great instructor. He nearly laughs, in his way, and I have learned to make out his wry non-expression. "I do not wish to attempt to teach cadets who are looking at me while thinking about undressing the women around them."

"Right. I guess you would know."

He inclines his head toward me, minutely, enough for me to know how hilarious he finds this.

The library is simply a large, shared workspace. Anyone can get the information they need from anywhere on campus, but it's nice, when I'm exhausted and stuck on an idea or essay, to have a place where I can go and be part of the world of overworked students. It seemed, also, like a good place to go for us to stay out of trouble and practice basic Vulcan.

Adjacent to this communal area is a dark, rarely if ever used cave of stacks upon stacks of old-fashioned, hard copy books. It smells of paper and ink and the cloth book covers are velvety with age. It reminds me of the lower decks of a ship. It even has historic lighting with strings to pull to light just the aisles one wants to use. The stacks are graced with rich, polished wooden ladders. I love to come here and think alone. I have never seen another soul come along. It's a place of wonder and hardness and softness and ideas.

I used to come here a lot more often before I had a sex starved, drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend. Now I bring _him_ here to kiss.

If he were any other boy, I'd grab his arm and laugh and drag him away to my book cave. But he is not, and so I flirt in a more acceptable manner, sending him a message across our padds, which are nearly touching. My intentions span the tiny gap between us. He looks up and swallows. A simple kiss seems so dangerous out here in the world.

The aisle is cool and dim and he's actually distracted by the books for about two seconds. I watch his long fingers run across one spine reverently. While he looks at the books, I look at him. So tall and trim and graceful. I don't want to interrupt his thoughts, but I can't wait any longer and I throw myself into his chest, his arms go up around my back, and he buries his tongue in my mouth. His hands move up my back, one continuing up my neck. He holds the back of my head tight with his long, rawboned fingers, locking my mouth to his. Then he combs those gorgeous fingers through my hair, makes a ponytail, pulls hard and my neck is exposed to his most savage kisses.

The library is good.

*****


	10. Hum

*****

How have I arrived here?

Not only at this insufferable social function--a type of event she explained as designed to help classmates bond. I explained how distasteful that sounds to a Vulcan, and she quite seriously considered the error and apologized between kisses and nips of my nose, as she climbed into my lap. I was not angered by her, but I did grind my hips upward to receive her apology.

Not only that. But also, how have I arrived here, in a world where she is fond of me? A world in which she chooses me? I am by far the most fortunate man in this place, or anywhere. Her bright eyes check with me as she speaks with a group of friends across the room. I have none. I stand alone, my hands behind my back in a counter-intuitively protective stance. I am accustomed to this feeling of awkwardness, of considering whether I should, or how possibly I might, converse with someone. At the moment I give up contemplating this question so I can simply watch her stand. I have held her so many times now, placed one hand on the small of her back, another on her buttocks, I have memorized her shape and can nearly see her body through her clothing.

A fellow cadet comes up behind me and slaps me on the back. I nearly turn in anger but control myself and quickly recall this is a friendly Human gesture. He introduces himself to me and hands me a beer, a drink which is abhorrent in taste but which is traditional for these kinds of Human events. Two of his friends join us as well, four of us together. Inwardly I consider how comic we must appear together, an unlikely scenario. I have no further need to wonder what subject we might discuss, because he mentions her immediately.

How have I arrived here in this moment, watching her intently from across a small room of half-inebriated socializing cadets? When her neck is so slender, only meters away.

I focus, speak. "Yes, she is remarkable."

He whistles and tells me far from remarkable, she is sweet, smart, hot, luscious, a gem of a girl. I believe my increasingly cold stare keeps him from venturing farther down a list of adjectives that might cause me to punch him and ruin her evening. He finally lands on "she's great," and asks how I became involved with her. I scan my memory for any possible thing I have done to deserve her. I answer him truthfully. "I do not know."

He and his companions nod their heads gravely and sip their drinks, and I sip mine to display appropriate "friendly" behavior.

Mercifully, it seems enough that I stand near them and consume beer. I am not expected to speak more. I do listen, and they speak mainly of women. In the back of my mind I am recalling a paper I read earlier today, reconsidering the hypothesis, another part of my mind listening to the men around me. Does every creature, of every species and throughout the universe, approximately three minutes into a conversation, turn to the topic of sex?

Another part of my mind--the foremost part--completely understands the fascination, because her head tilts and her hair falls down when she responds to something her friend has asked. I take this seemingly very long period, spent standing among men considered my peers, to watch her move. Her mouth makes contact with a glass of wine. She drinks sensually, and her eyes sneak a look in my direction. I feel a rush of adrenaline, and break eye contact with her as the cadet on my left jabs me in the side and grins.

I cannot wait another minute to leave this place. I stride across the floor, wish I could take her arm but keep myself from touching her, and whisper into her delicate ear. Even as I whisper harshly about leaving, I think of the many times I have caressed her ear with my tongue. I imagine its taste. Her girlfriends watch us hungrily, smiling at me as I look up to say goodbye. They seem like kind friends, she likes them, but I do not smile as we leave. Her friends, and the men I was standing with, watch us go.

They see my proper veneer, controlled emotions, direct countenance. They do not know my heart.

I want to protect her from the eyes upon us. I know she takes a terrible risk to be with me, the risk of incurring anger, or worse, sympathy. I know how it feels. I once asked her to allow me to leave her, so she might have a normal life. We sat on her bed. A dark, cold despair crept through me even as I formed the words, I was so committed to providing her the opportunity to be happy, so terrified she would say yes. My question elicited an outpouring of tears. She explained that I had misled her. She thought I was abandoning her. It rent me internally. I kissed her everywhere on her face, kisses in quick succession, and then brought her tearful face to my chest. Intertwined my fingers with hers. Where her head touched me felt brilliant and warm and after several choking breaths she nuzzled into me and we lay back and slept.

I have thought it again since. I should leave her so she can enjoy a normal life. But I know it will hurt her if I do. She and I are both caught in a deep crevasse. On one side we are odd and wrong and need to cease. On the other we will be miserable if we do.

Once outside, I push her up against a darkened wall and take her neck in my mouth. I grasp and pin her arms against the stone. Her breath quickens and I pull away to look at her. Her face is open to me.

I lean close to her ear and whisper, "I want you to go down on me."

She laughs a twinkling laugh, just enough to embarrass me deeply. "Where did you hear that?"

I regain something of myself, answer confidently. "I overheard some male cadets speaking about their girlfriends. This phrase came up."

She runs a finger along my cheekbone. "It's a, um, rather crude way to describe something...loving."

"Show me."

I command her nicely. I say please.

*****

He has asked me nicely.

He's never felt a mouth on his hard penis. I had forgotten his admission the first time we kissed. How he had experienced sex with a Vulcan woman, but how it had been mechanical and really limited to the basics. He gave me his tongue, inside me, in the lab what seems like so long ago. Soon after, we moved on to making love nearly constantly. It's been so fantastic just riding his gorgeous body, and I actually, astoundingly, have not even thought about oral sex. And he's been too shy to ask. Tonight sends him over some kind of edge. He takes me outside, forcefully gives me his mouth, asks me. Nicely. I pry myself away from him and tell him goodnight, breathing in his scent even as I pull away. I leave him in the dark bushes, not cruelly, but finally, for tonight.

I ask him to meet me in the library in 24 hours.

I return to the party, to my two friends and our drinks. They ask what that was about, why he's so demanding. I tell them he just wanted to go home, he handles social situations completely differently from us, approaches things like this party as we might an alien ritual. They ask me if that's all that is different. In every galaxy, on every rock that supports life, people want to know the sexual details.

I have hidden those details, kept them strictly private, but one of my girls tells me it must be alien, he seems too cold. "He _is_ an alien," I remind her. It must be like kissing a stone statue. They have to know, "Why are you doing this? Fess up." I tell myself they're jealous, curious. But they are calling my love, my hot sweetest man, a cold cement wall--and laughing. I've had enough.

"He fucks like a volcano," I levelly tell them, proud that I've adopted some of his dry humor. Their faces go blank and mouths actually drop open.

For 24 hours, getting his cock into my mouth is all I can think about. I want to see him squirm and crumble with pleasure. He has class late, so I'll get to do it when he's in uniform--tremendously hot and doable. I will do him, and do him so dirty he may never recover.

He indicates he's gotten the idea that I will "engage him sexually" in this public place. He reminds me of the conversation we had about public expression of affection, and I remind him of how he went down on me in the lab. We have this exchange while standing apart, hands behind our backs. The juxtaposition of clean stance and dirty words is thrilling. I explain that I won't do anything he refuses, but I do remind him of his own excuse that "not one person uses this lab." And I tell him truthfully, "I have never seen a single being enter the old books stacks."

He is uncomfortable, but clearly dying for it. I can see a decision in his eyes, and they begin to smolder and make me very warm.

We go back into the abandoned stacks, and I don't pull the cable to turn on any lights. It's quite dark, the only illumination the emergency lighting, very dim but enough to see faintly. Because he's tall, it makes sense that I ask him to get up on one of the ancient rolling ladders to get a book for me. He questions me with an eyebrow, but I make a motion for him to scoot up there and get me what I want. I watch his slender hips and impossibly long legs. He climbs up a couple of steps and that's when I stop him. Command him to stop there. He's confused but intrigued.

I get under the ladder and find I've had him stop on the exact right step. The one where I can reach through the rungs and open his pants.

His pelvis is just at my height, his body goes completely still and terrified. He clears his throat and looks around but finds no one anywhere near us. I can tell I've utterly thrown him, but he has a seemingly endless well of lust and flat-out need, and he's made his decision and he doesn't stop me.

I gently pull him out of his pants and his erection is in my face, strong and lovely. He's trying to breathe normally but I can feel his body jerk as he no doubt realizes what I plan to do. I run my fingertips up from bottom to tip and he sighs and whines as quietly as possible, together in a single hungry, grateful sound. He is rock hard in no time. As I close my hand gently around him the whine rises in pitch but not volume. He's very quiet. I lean away to look at him and see he's thrown back his head, perhaps in compensation for being unable to cry out. He's reacting just the way I want, and my own desire gets too hot for me to wait any longer. I want him in my mouth. I want to do this for him and for me. I want to watch him feel this new thing, experience his first time, have it always be me.

First I use my tongue, sliding it along the same path my fingers took. He is so hard. He thrusts at me and is stopped by the ladder--a most perfect and simple restraint for loving teasing. I lean into him and take just the tip of him into my mouth as softly and wetly as I can. His velvet voice says "yes" and he pushes toward me again. I push back and take him farther in. Farther each time we move. And soon he is pressing with all his strength and struggling against the impeding wood. He can't get all the way in to my mouth. But each time I get him as far in as the ladder will allow, I add a single swirl of my tongue to reach his neglected skin.

Despite the wooden barrier, he fills up my mouth and I find my lips tingling magically.

I let one hand drift down under my skirt and push past my panties. I begin rubbing myself, fast right away since I'm sure this can't last much longer. I make burning circles on myself while my head and mouth move over him. He's struggling to make no sound, and somewhat failing, resulting in an incredibly gratifying nearly sub-vocal growl. His effort makes me shudder. I wonder yet another time at having his dreamt-of, coveted body this time actually in my mouth.

I look up to find his head rests on a rung of ladder, eyes tightly closed, seized by pleasure and agony. His arms are above him, his hands two rungs up. He is gripping with such force, it's a wonder the wood doesn't snap. The joy and shock and agony I see in him makes me come forcefully with the kind of orgasm that drowns and overflows my body and makes my clitoris throb under my fingers. As I come I hum into him and his body jerks toward me with a few final thrusts. He comes against my lips. I still feel a repeated rising and falling in my sex, for long moments after. I lick him one last time, and he collapses against the ladder with his arms splayed on either side and head slumped on one step.

It seems he can't open his eyes.

*****


	11. Restrain

*****

I see her the moment I enter the library. I am calculating how I must rearrange my study schedule to meet her tonight, when I notice her seeing me. All administrative thoughts are gone, because her hair is loose and very slightly curled over her shoulders, her lips, smiling, seem fuller and lusher than ever, I can nearly smell her, clean and earthy. My eyes drop to her hips, to where my hands belong. Her face lights up for me, and her adoration warms me. I nearly run to her in a ridiculous manner. A fervid schoolboy.

She takes my hand, so intimate. I glance in every direction to feel sure no one is looking. The hand holding cannot be taken back, the looking around is idiotic, but finding the area empty reassures me. She smiles and draws me into the rare book stacks, where we have kissed before. Dim, dusty emergency lighting fills the corridors. I consider this form of information storage. It is difficult to imagine life at a time when these books were the primary means of sharing facts, thoughts, knowledge, beauty, lore. I note I have included beauty in this list. While it is logical, I may not have thought of it just months ago. Her presence has changed my internal life, most likely forever.

She asks me to reach a book for her, high on the top shelf, and I roll a wooden ladder to the right location and begin to climb. Before I reach the book in question she tells me to stop. Her voice is commanding and I am intrigued. Then I feel her hands working at my pants. I am incredulous and for a moment my insides melt over a flame. Neither she, nor anyone, has placed lips and tongue and mouth on this part of my body, and I believe that is what she's about to do. I am overcome with gratitude--and soul-crushing anticipation.

Then I regain my consciousness and realize our unacceptable situation. I look around once more, fearing deeply that someone will find us here, fearing deeply, too, that she will stop. In the space of less than three seconds I give up on propriety and safety, because she is running a single finger along the length of my hard penis. This basic, tender touch is among the most intense of all the many ways we please one another. It is no wonder. It is breathtaking and fundamental. It's hard to believe it can be improved upon, but when she wraps her small hand completely around me and squeezes gently, I throw my head back and lean into the suddenly superfluous ladder.

A small part of my mind manages to think on the nature of physical contact when I feel a curious, wet sensation. I look at her running her pink tongue up my hardness and am bewildered. It's like a razor cut, unfeelable at first, and when it hits, acute and stunning. I grab a rung of the ladder to steady myself and hold on, in danger of being thrown somewhere, outward, away. When she stops licking and places my penis in her mouth I clamp down on the sounds that struggle to come out. My body seeks, begs to go deeper and deeper.

The ladder seems worse than superfluous.

Holding onto a rung with both hands, I close my eyes and concede. Her mouth is wet and urgent, and she punctuates each thrust with a searing swirl of her tongue, ending with an indescribable gentle suction. She is taking me in her mouth. Taking me. In her mouth. The only woman who has, who has wanted this intimacy with me, more intimate than any lovemaking we have enjoyed before. I close my eyes and let complex equations, numbers and symbols white upon black, run by. Run by without attempt at understanding, my thoughts empty. Black and white behind my eyes. Closed tight. The pleasure starts with her mouth and spirals up inside me, the pleasure itself devouring me, and when her vocal chords strum against me I release, without sense, onto her face and lips. I can hardly understand I've come, and I push against the ladder several more times. She licks semen off me and I continue squeezing my eyes shut so as to burn this moment forever behind my eyelids.

I want to rebuke her for this, putting us at risk in such a public place. But how can I when I also want to praise her and thank her and cherish her for as long as I live?

I try, somewhat successfully, to remember and draw on the considerable techniques I've studied to return my breathing and sight to normal. Then look at her--her, yes, beloved eyes, that could shred my heart in a moment. I gaze into those eyes, then take in the sight of her pale and pink complexion, her smile, her wet chin. I'm shocked and ashamed to realize her face is dripping. My mind throws up an indecent question. Do males all over the galaxy and throughout time find it so alluring to look at their own ejaculate on a beautiful woman's face?

****

He's quizzing me.

In several languages. The survey class is dull and broad and the only good thing about it is him. I'm so happy the exam will be done with in a few days, behind me, us. All but the Vulcan, which I could study for the rest of my life because my teacher whispers his language into my ear in a deep lush voice, and passing his tests is quite rewarding.

Tonight, unfortunately, we are skipping Vulcan because that form of study has left all other languages neglected. Sitting on the bed together, we've gone down a list of those I need to scan and those I need to do some more serious work on. At the end of the list, I add playfully, "Then there's always body language."

He says rather stiffly, "Kinesics. Some philosophers--and a vast array of humanoids--believe it is universal."

"But it's not," I answer, immediate and sure, and he nods at me with what seems like respect. "A long time ago, when Humans hadn't met any species from other worlds, it was believed there were several universal facial expressions, genetically encoded. Happiness, surprise, disgust. Those old theories have persisted even as Humans meet species whose bodies bear no resemblance to ours."

"How do you know about this?"

I poke him in his exquisite thigh and tell him, "I do have other interests...And besides, I have good reason to study _your_ body language."

"Mine." It's said with a lilt, teasing, prompting me for more.

"Well, ours. Ours are different from one another, and we've spent time learning and blending them. We sort of have our own shared body language now."

"Physical idioglossia. Fascinating. Can you give an example?"

"Are you quizzing me?"

"Yes, I am." Suddenly he seems very serious, strangely not in the mood to flirt. Rather than sitting with his hands resting on his invitingly spread knees, he sits upright, nearly at attention.

"Okay..." I stand to kind of think on my feet, and turn to give him a good example. "Personal claim."

He raises an eyebrow, an instance of Vulcan body language so complex and multiple. It's hard to believe I'm beginning to get the hang of the eyebrow. Right now, it's a question, elevated to the level of a challenge.

"Several months ago, I would have publicly signified a claim over a man by holding hands, putting an arm around him, kissing him in front of other people. With you, I've worked out how to lay my claim in a way that you're comfortable with--walking or sitting close to you, locking eyes, talking in hushed tones...and you have learned a way to reciprocate that we both understand. That other people around us get, because otherwise it would not work as claim..." He's watching me strangely, and I become quiet. I whisper, "When we're _alone_ I can touch you."

I reach down to touch his arm and I feel him recoil ever so slightly. I haven't felt that reaction from him in a long time. In fact, never felt it in the privacy of my room. I take my hand away. There's an awkward silence. He stands, and his hands move behind his back. I've learned that's protective, arms hanging loose are free and comfortable, crossed on his chest, bored or amused. Right now he's uncomfortable. We stand face to face, very close in my small room, but neither of us reaches for the other.

I blurt out, "When something is funny, I laugh," thinking, as I giggle stupidly, that I do it when I'm nervous too. "_You_ raise an eyebrow. And smile."

"I do not smile."

"Hah, that's what you think. You have no idea how many ways your body betrays you." Still standing at near-attention, he drops his head, as if studying the floor. My heart is a dead weight inside me. There's something very wrong, and the more I talk about our bodies, the worse it gets.

Then he looks up at me, and his eyes are dark and twinkling. "Bad boy. You're still _testing_ me."

His arms come around to cross on his chest and he leans back against my dresser. He gives me his near-smile and regards me slyly. "When I feel affection I speak in hushed tones?" The sentence becomes seductive, the normal words uttered in such a sexual way, I go weak.

I nod.

"When something is funny, I raise an eyebrow?"

Nod again.

"And when I desire you sexually?"

I can barely answer. "That's where we're pretty much the same."

I go to him, press my body into his. He stands fully upright, and his arms disentangle from themselves to come up behind me. One hand grasps my buttocks, and he picks me up off the floor, twirls me around like we're dancing, deposits me on the bed. He responds in the way he always does, ardently, roughly, with great joy.

In the morning, I wake with a start to find my roommate leaning over the bed, smirking at me. She's not supposed to be here. All in one second I feel him hot and strong against my back, his arm around my waist, see our uniforms a sea of red on the floor. "What?" I blurt out.

"Nothing," she smiles "it's just, your Vulcan looks beautiful when he's sleeping."

"He looks beautiful breathing." I sigh out loud, but inside my mind is singing at the words _your Vulcan_. Hearing someone else say them, they feel so tender. I snug my body back into him. "He looks beautiful walking, standing, sitting, everything." She smiles indulgently at me, and says ever so softly and like a good friend, "It's true." She swings her bag over her shoulder and leaves the room.

*****


	12. Submit

*****

I have appeared a lovesick fool to the world. The past months have been an extreme, biologically-based and emotionally saturated time. A situation in which I was unable to bring my control to bear. But until last night, I had not thought about the lasting gestures, the ones that give me away even when I am not desperate and pining for a female. The way I "smile." The way I hold my body, my arms, my facial features. It was disturbing to learn, from her, how thoroughly my body betrays me.

I have helped her learn the most basic concepts and forms of a number of common languages. Most intimately, I have shared my own with her. My body language. She has accepted, drank in, my body and its expressions as no one has ever wished to before. And I have shared Vulcan, whispered its harsh tones, and found them soft and dulcet in her ears.

Right now she is taking her test.

And I am miserable, alone, churning thoughts over and over while she conjugates nervously. I forcefully turned away from my world, my family, the most sacred teachings of my people. I stood before the leaders of my culture's most revered institution and told them, as a Human might say, "Up yours." This phrase seems at once too colorful and nowhere near fundamental and enormous enough for what I have done, what I meant to do. I risked my life, family, already tenuous acceptance as a Vulcan, to be here, at this academy, on this path.

I find myself masturbating in a dorm shower.

I soap myself and dream of her breasts, pliant under my fingers, her skin resilient as I press into it with my palms. Press harder. I would push her down into my bed, pin her arms, tell her to open for me. I would demand things of her. Stay. Suck. Obey. I position her in arousing poses, and she complies and stays still for me. Even as I stroke myself, hot water soaking me, running down my back and arms, I consider how my fantasies have taken a dark turn. I try to redirect, dreaming of her sweetness, deep kisses, the sudden, charming tilt of her head when something I do pleases her body. I dream of grabbing her delicious hair, pulling on it to make her move as I wish, biting kisses into her neck. I eat hungrily of her neck. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me, waiting for instruction. Submitting to me physically and emotionally. She is my female. I groan loudly. In completion, but mostly in anger at myself.

My troubling fantasy flows , logically, down the drain.

I can hardly admit this even in my deepest mind, but I love her. I have never loved another being this way, and it is curious and consuming and completely uncontrollable. As such, I cannot live with it. I cannot control my feelings, and I will no longer be able to study at this academy, nor function in any capacity. I will have offended and severed myself from a family, a world, for the simple attainment of love and without achieving, nor even really pursuing, the brilliant, lifelong career I came here for. The situation, at best, requires a choice between equally undesirable outcomes. But the truth is, I am unequal to the task. There is no way in the universe that I can choose to leave her.

As I dry my body, dress myself, stand straight in front of my mirror, I arrange my body and features so I can walk among my peers, deliver a paper to an instructor, attend a lecture, drink hot tea. The heat passes over my lips, where she kisses me, and my mouth lights up with desire for her. Fascinating--I can literally feel echoes of her mouth on mine. As beads of hot tea evaporate off my lips, the tingling is like her tongue flicking. I imagine the sweet scent of her breath, the touch of it on my face, gentle mist on my nose as she leans in for a kiss. Her lips. At this moment, they become the tiny, brilliant dot at the center of the universe. I wander in consideration of her mouth. Her lips, so fresh and cool and kissed with moisture, will soon join mine. I burn my tongue on my tea and nearly swear. I manage to keep hold of the cup.

When I return to my room, I prepare a list of verbs for her. Imperatives.

*****

I nearly run to his room.

I already knew, and he has pointed out both in public and in private, at those moments the words breathed into my mouth on the way to a kiss, that math and other languages have so much in common, symbols, rules, special meanings for ordinary words. To me, they are not the same. So it's a special miracle I passed my test. The desk calculated my score immediately, and in fact it was quite good for me. He would commit suicide for receiving such a score, but I'm ecstatic.

First thing I want to do is tell him how he's taught me, what it meant. Tell him how we can return to our beautifully ordinary dates where we stroll through the world together, not talking about imperatives, but talking about sweet, intellectual and inane things.

When I arrive at his room, virtually breathless, he's there but the words get stuck in my throat. He sits very still in his desk chair. He's more quiet and thoughtful than I've ever seen him. I've seen him a lot. This is very quiet, nearly grave.

I blurt out, "I passed!"

His face doesn't change. His voice is dry. "Score."

"Oh," I say, so articulate in the face of his blunt demand. The score I thought was so great a minute ago suddenly seems unutterably low. "...86."

He looks me straight in the eye and says "You will make up those 14 points." I must look completely bewildered, am completely bewildered. I can't think of any reason why my loving, attentive man who is interested in everything I do, no matter how dumb, who taught me the rules of language, whispered to me in his own cherished tongue, would be treating me this way.

"Translate. _Kroykah."_

He's quizzing me in Vulcan? Now? "Stop?"

"Close." The room is small—two chairs, two desks, two beds, a typical dorm room which suddenly seems tight and disconcerting. He stands rather sinisterly, but his eyes glint with something, some enjoyment of how he's talking to me. It makes my stomach ache. "Stop immediately, a far stronger expression." He takes one step to reach me, places his graceful finger on my lips, then sits back down in the desk chair his long legs bent at the knees. He looks vulgar and delicious that way. I always love when he sits like that. One of the times he doesn't realize how hot he is. I nearly forget how harsh and commanding he's being. I'm reminded abruptly. "That is your word. Anything I do to you, or ask you to do, you can stop with that word."

I tilt my head at him, give him my wondering eyes.

"Now kneel between my legs."

Oh. Oh. With a mental leap, I see where he's going. I will earn my 14 points.

I drop to the floor, and walk on my knees the short distance it takes to get to him. I look up into his eyes. He places his thumbs on my temples and rubs gently, runs his thumbs down onto my cheeks, rubs again and it makes my lips purse. He lets my face go and undoes his pants, just enough to take out his growing erection. He holds himself lightly, his hand moving lazily over his hardening penis. Nonchalantly, as if we are not in this room, in this indecent position. His voice is rough. "Translate. _Tu-ash'uh._"

I look up and ask, hesitantly, "Open?"

"Good." He's pleased. "Now do it."

I freeze for a moment and he says, more forcefully, "_Tu-ash'uh." _I open my mouth. I move to take him in, but he says "Wait." I am paused with my mouth open, looking up at him, waiting for instructions. He has me place my palms on his thighs and tells me not to move my hands. Then places one of his own large hands on the back of my head and pulls gently down and onto him. I take him all the way in. Soon I'm lapping at him like a puppy, my front paws on his thighs.

With his hand cradling my head, he has just enough self-control to rasp out. "_Vitem'uh._" The two syllables of the imperative come together with his last two thrusts into my mouth. I do the best I can, but find that when he ejaculates I get come on my face and chin. I tell him the translation anyway. "Swallow."

He collects himself quickly, stands and zips himself up. "You have failed to follow my directive completely." I begin to speak, but he places a finger hard on my lips and continues the test. I translate every word he gives me.

"_She'uh."_

"Stand."

"Correct." He is not giving me his seductive Vulcan smile. He is serious, and I stand. "Remove your clothing." Starting with my boots, I do it and the situation makes me, stupidly, self-conscious, like the first time I let him see my body. I drop everything to the floor, down to my bra and panties. I look at him shyly and he simply waits while I remove those last two items. He doesn't quite push me, but takes me firmly by the arm and moves me to stand in front of his desk, places me facing it.

"_Vulaya'uh."_

"Bend." A thrill runs through me, and I bend over the desk.

"_Sak'uh."_

I blush and can hardly say the word. Somehow after all the times I've been in intimate positions with him, saying it out loud makes me nervous and it comes out a tiny whisper. "Spread." And I spread my legs so my stomach and breasts press hard against the desk.

He moves behind me, places two hands on my buttocks and rubs, and I feel an embarrassing rush of arousal. Part of me feels shame at liking the way he's doing this, but the sensation is so good I let the thoughts, the shame, go by. His hands make me warm, make me tingle, and then suddenly they are gone for a brief second, and then one connects with me, hard, in a loud smack. I'm startled, and it hurts. I instinctively try to stand.

He growls out, "_hafa'uh._" I'm silent, frozen for a moment, and he says "Translate."

"Remain." I stutter, "Remain...in the same state or condition."

He nods. "Stay," he says, shooting a glance at the desk. He waits for me to bend myself back over it and repeats what he did, smacking me. It feels hard, hurts, but not completely savagely. I know he's carefully adjusting his strength, know he won't damage me. The stinging grows, and every time he brings his hand down on my buttocks my head and body lurch forward against the desk. It makes my body sing with desire. I travel in memories, back to the first time we made love. How he was so shy, so desperate, so dependent on me. I am amazed at where we are now. I throb and want.

He runs two fingers down my hot cheeks and lower until he reaches my lips, pulls them apart gently, and the stinging and relief and pleasure together make me cry. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes, and they're hot and I can nearly feel the salt in them.

He grabs my hair and pulls me to stand and the sudden attack makes me let out a strangled cry. He smiles, nearly, his way, and regards me with serious and smoldering eyes. Pulling me by my hair, just enough to hurt a little, he moves me to the bed. Pushes me down on it, on my stomach. "Turn over." I do. He stands, looming over me, not scaring me but electrifying me. He tells me to place my hands over my head, clasp them together.

"Do not move them, no matter what I do."

I do what I'm told, a tendril of fear beginning to snake around inside me, joining with the arousal there. It feels wicked.

"Spread again." I open my legs, hestitantly. "_Eikan'uh._" I don't know this one, and I panic and he sees it and adds, "Widen." I open them wider and feel cold air on my most intimate skin. He leans over me, leans on one hand on the bed. One finger makes a hot trail from between my breasts to between my legs, continues, continues, pushing into me until his knuckles are against my pubic bones.

"_Wuf-ka'uh."_

I'm losing focus, his finger resting inside me, not moving, torturing me. I find the word. "Tighten." I tighten my sex around his finger and he begins to pump it into me. I groan and writhe to meet his finger and he smiles again. Then stops.

He stands, and slowly removes his clothes. I've seen his body so many times, always adoring his raw strength and beauty, but I've never been dying for it in precisely this way. Dying for it. He kneels between my legs and says "Stay. Arms do not move." He has no idea what these words mean to me, to my body at this moment. "Now I will enter you."

He does, enter me, slowly pushing forward until he's all the way inside me. I bring my legs up behind him, to pull him into me, and I forget not to hold my arms above my head. I bring my arms around to hold him.

He growls and shakes his head, grinds out "No!" and quickly removes himself from my body. My ache is even worse than before. The throbbing is now painful, with no hope of ending. I place my hands above my head once more. But he doesn't enter me again. He says, "Hands and knees." I follow his command, and he rubs my cheeks again, smacks me, three, four, five times, every time stoking my fire, he grinds out more words. "_Nekha'uh_." I say nothing, don't know this word, and he adds in Standard, "Sub...mit" making these two syllables a pair of hard smacks. I'm moaning and saying please and please and please. He growls "Turn over," and I do. I place my hands above my head and he kneels between my knees and says we can try this again. Impossibly slower than last time, he pushes himself all the way into me.

Then unexpectedly, utterly at odds, he leans on his forearms, dips his head so he can gaze into my eyes, with love, clearly, openly love. A look giving me every emotion he's never been able to name. And he kisses me deeply, his tongue softly filling my mouth. He begins to move inside me, and a rush of relief and sweet pleasure fills me everywhere at once and I moan into his mouth. His familiar warmth is in me, in my mouth, in my sex, lying heavy on me. He pulls back and whispers,_"Zahv'uh."_

I whisper back,"Taste."

He says, "Take into the mouth."

And I do, and do, and do.

*****


	13. Recall

*****

We plan to meet for a weekend of lovemaking.

Her roommate is traveling for three days, during which time we will stay in her room. Her plan entails us not leaving the room at any time. I am not sure of the purpose of this constraint, but I am willing to participate in any way she desires. I consider the issue of my willingness, while folding a black t-shirt, which I may have no need for as she has intimated there will be little clothing involved. Though he may respect and adore her, it is not usual for a Vulcan male to show servile deference to a female. Yet, if she desires me, I go.

I stand next to my bed, preparing to leave my room for three days, and I find myself staring into a distance where she sits, indistinct and lustrous. We are in class, I am two rows behind her, as if it is a day we have yet to touch. My burning for her is relentless. As I have so many times, I watch her hair glisten, upswept in its intriguing geometric shape. Then in my mind I move to the seat directly behind her and I trail one finger down the nape of her neck. She reaches up and unclasps her hair and it cascades over my hand, a breathless moment caught in the timelessness of reverie. I brush my hand through it and it fans out through my fingers. I used to notice, and I do again in this waking dream, the lack of contrast between her hair and my hand, both having a low degree of chroma. We are matched in our pallor.

I slide my hand down over her shoulder onto her chest, and I lean forward into her back so I can find her breast with my fingers, caress and squeeze it through her uniform. With a trick of fantasy and memory, we are no longer in the classroom. We are in the lab and I am pushing apart her cream-colored thighs, hoisting her legs up over my shoulders. Her knees bend next to my ears. I have never done this before, never used my mouth to pleasure a female.

I have prepared for it, wanting to surprise and please her. Preparation has included a short amount of reading, and a single vid, which quickly proved idiotic. I did gain one salient piece of advice. Be confident. The worst possible outcome would be her realizing I cannot do it. And so I simply do it.

As I move my mouth to take her, and she opens wider to me, her delicious aroma reaches me and my ability to appear confident approaches zero. I have never been immersed in a woman's scent. I nearly fall off the chair, rendering the entire exercise an embarrassing failure. I hang on to her thighs, take heed of the one piece of good advice I uncovered, and plunge into her with all the convincing energy I possess. I get an enthusiastic response. She grasps my head, nearly tearing out my hair, and makes a delicate yet animal sound that makes my blood run hot. So I repeat my actions. Whenever I remove my tongue from her body, she pushes my head so I will return, and I consider this is likely the highest form of approval. I gain actual confidence, beginning to use my tongue every way I can imagine, receiving an excellent response to tracing swirling circles. I am making love to her with my mouth, breathing her in most intimately, something I have wanted to do for her, for me, for quite some time. And it fulfills me without her touching me, without touching myself, I am complete. Her climax is tremendous and alarmingly loud, and she continues to press my head to her body, convulsing around my tongue.

We are in the classroom again, both sated and charged. I am next to her now, and I slide my hand up her thigh and she pushes her leg into my hand, turns to me and gives me her tongue, licking and sucking at my mouth. In a flash my pants are open and she is straddling me, guiding me into her, sitting down, down onto my erection. Students all around us do not notice how we fuck and fuck.

In reality I organize extra clothing for a weekend with her, and I am reaching for a padd with several papers and a variety of incomplete work on it when I note the time. It is after class, before night, and she has asked me to arrive at 18:30. I have not missed an appointment of any kind, perhaps in my life. Tonight is singular and disturbing.

I may not make it.

*****

The bed has no room for both of us. We pushed it out of the way and threw pillows and blankets on the floor. We're here now, in between caresses and bouts of lovemaking, wrapped up in sheets. And I'm angry. Angry like I was the first day he approached me, at the very beginning of this. Confusingly angry and unable to trace it to a cause, or to an end. I feel his hot skin under mine, as I fall asleep with my head on his stomach. When I close my eyes an algorithm forms, an odd set of rules for solving an elusive problem, the kind in dreams, where the destination is far and I'm trudging in heaviness. I wake to his body slipped under the covers behind me, cupping me, hard again. His eagerness, his adoration of me even after time has passed and we've become familiar, makes me wet. And his words do, instantly.

"I'm going to take you."

I push back against him sleepily, yielding to his entering me. Every time it's breathtaking, and I sigh into the sensation of his thickness moving in unhurried strokes, stretching me. His movements make me feel physically needy, as if my body itself is weeping. Then his strokes suddenly build in intensity and speed and he rolls me over roughly. He throws my left leg up against his shoulder, and his pushing into me becomes more insistent. His brilliant eyes, so warm and awake, now veer off. He stares far away above me as his body continues to pump into mine and for a moment he is mechanical, just the way most people think he might be in bed. It reminds me of something, and as I watch and feel him go at me this way, I comb my mind for the memory. Yes, it was our first day together. When he told me about the Vulcan woman he'd had sex with. It was dutiful, not pleasurable, and something about this brings up both words, duty, pleasure. The dichotomy is complicated. One I'm used to with him, my love.

His eyes come back to me, spear me with more love than he's shown before. It's so clear and hard, I can almost hear the unsaid words, the I love yous he's kept locked away. He gently presses his thumb to my clitoris, the hood of it, pushing it toward his thrusting penis, and the motion and the compression throw me over the edge. I shake and cry out and drive myself into him and he comes with a groan and a howl. His eyes dive into mine for a second before he drops onto me, solid and heavy.

I am bone tired and warm and my breath is limited under his weight. I feel myself slipping away again. To the dream.

*****


	14. Reflect

*****

I have been lost in her room for two full nights, two and one-half days. Lost in a rolling fog of pleasure and exhaustion.

Being Human she is far more exhausted than I, and after the third time we climaxed this morning, she disappeared into a deep sleep. She is still there now, her ice-colored eyes closed, delicate breath on a mass of pillows and blankets. And I lie waking. Lying in a heap of bed coverings, a singular waste of time. I wish for a padd, to engage my mind in anything but a continual consideration of the logic of duty, love, what I have done by dipping into both and mastering neither. I consider the concepts of information, exploration, of farflung space, of her body. I explore her body with my eyes, follow the lean curve of her hip until it disappears into soft sheets. Imagine the silken sex that even in sleep awaits me. I could wake her again, as I did once already this morning, slide in behind her and rouse her with my insistent hard penis. I consider logic itself. My vacillating thoughts, how this exercise consumes me when all is quiet. A dull paper to read would be welcome, but my things are all stuck somewhere in this morass of a room.

I am reclining with her head on my abdomen. Her hair is so much longer than when we met, it nearly reaches her waist. Has so much time passed? Have its watery blonde waves passed through my hands so often I no longer see change? I consider my hand plunged in her hair now, my thumb on her temple. How I could hurt her with just this hand. How I must not, ever, hurt her. I let my eyes take in her entire body, her long limbs reaching for me even in sleep, this most coveted person. I burned for this very moment to arrive. My thumb moves over her temple in circles and I fill with terrifying love. It takes all my will to keep from crying, an impulse I have not had to curb since childhood, and which I note now as odd and misplaced. I literally sigh. I no longer understand anything.

I extricate myself and walk to the bathroom.

And I catch myself in the mirror. I want to smile and retch in equal measure. My hair is visibly longer and in severe disarray, my ears contrasting ridiculously with the mass of ragged black ends. My face is covered with hair, dark stubble on my cheeks, chin, throat. I am a disgrace. I close my eyes and see my lover in a cloud of sheets, a mist of beauty and scent rising to meet me. I allow myself this image behind my eyes for a moment, before I open them to the startling sight of me. The bathroom is cold and white, and my eyes are deep with something I cannot name. I look thoroughly into them, something I have not done in too long. I cock my head and wonder, have I _ever _done it?

I have never been adept at recognizing emotions. Now that inability is turned on myself, my own unreadable face.

.

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_fin_

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_Yes, the end, but I have taken to heart some suggestions for a sequel in which the schoolgirl returns in Nyota-time. It's in the works. Thank you so much for reading and commenting! ETC_


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